games We Don't Want To Play, same Winner Everyday
by Cuppa Char
Summary: It's the reason he's here now – on an epic journey for skittles and lucky charms – in a two-bit 24/7. It's here that everything changes. When the truth comes to a head. When his despair becomes terror. Because Allison and the very much alive Gerard Argent are here too. Grocery shopping, of all things. Post Fireflies; Stiles reveals what really happened in the Argent basement.


(part of a fic dump as I have been neglecting )

_games we don't want to play, same winner everyday_

A/N: Post Fireflies; Stiles reveals what really happened in the Argent basement. So basically, I wanted to explore what REALLY happened in the basement back in S2 and how I could make it come to a head. Quotes/references to S2E8 'Raving' and S2E10 'Fury'. References to S3E2 'Chaos Rising' and S3E3 'Fireflies' and of course, naturally, S2E12 'Master Plan'. Some references to S23A, including tying the timeline into S3E6 Motel California.

Just to make things clear: In this version, post S2 - Erica's still dead, Boyd is still missing, but Jackson hasn't left. Oh, and typed before 'Claudia' became the name for Stils mom so she's Sarah here.

T/Warning: sexual assault, attempted rape, PTSD, panic attacks…

Title comes from 'Cosmos (Outer Space) She Wants Revenge Remix' by t.A.T.u. 'Cause my head cannon is that this is Stiles Safe!Song, the one he goes to when he wants to escape. Head cannon depicts Stiles brandishing a glow stick and raving it up in his room. So, yeah. Also, it's rather fitting.

Disclaimer: Standard Disclaimer applies. No infringement intended.

_feel no more, feel no less_

'Games we don't want to play

Same winner everyday

Kill for the second best

Feel no more, feel no less

We have our minutes cut

We lose our feelings but

That's what the movies show

This is where stories go

Stars we don't want to reach

Scars we don't want to stitch' _Cosmos (Outer Space) t.A.T.u_

"This has to stop, Stiles-" his dad is telling him.

"We can't go on like this."

"I've had enough."

Stiles follows his dad through the front door, head down, feet shuffling uncomfortably. He averts his eyes. He doesn't want to have to see the disappointment on his father's face again.

Stiles silence appears to bring the anger that was surely hidden within him. It was different to the time when his father had returned from the station after being suspended. That was quiet disappointment. Sad disappointment. There was still some need to protect his son.

"Do you know what it's been like for me?" his dad suddenly barks at him. Stiles flinches and watches as the already ruddiness to his father's cheeks flushes further.

Stiles refuses to look up. He ends up fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

"All that stuff last year with Jackson? The lying? The total disregard for my respect?"

Stiles looks up then and shakes his head. He can't form any words though as his dad starts pacing around the lounge.

"And then I had to take my own son in for questioning over a murder?"

His mouth opens, hangs slightly gaping. His dad can't think he had actually been involved? He feels his breath tightening in his chest, eyes stinging. The room spins around him and all he can think, clutching his hand into a fist at his side, nails pinching skin, is fuck all this shit.

"And if all of that isn't enough, I then get a call to say my son is skipping school and getting into fights," he watches as his dad paces further and waves a frustrated hand at him. He considers falling back into trusted quips and comebacks, something like 'truancy? It could be worse'. But it is and they both know it.

"It wasn't like that," Stiles finally manages to find his voice. It sounds scratchy and unused. Forced even to his own ears, despite it being the truth.

"No? What was it like then?" his dad asks him, body coming to a stop, eyes settling on him

Scrutinising him.

"Not like that," Stiles insists, feeling frustrated tears prevailing.

"Yeah," his dad grins ruefully, shaking his head with a disappointed laugh. He folds his arms across his chest and hardens his eyes. "I didn't think I'd get an actual answer. What the hell were you thinking asking if he was virgin? They'd just lost their only son. I'm not surprised you got clocked in the face."

Stiles can't but help let in a shuddering breath and squeeze his eyes shut.

_Don't hate me don't hate me please don't hate me… _

"Stiles?" his dad asks. His voice is softer now. When he looks up at him his eyes we're little sadder. "I just want to know what's happening with you, son. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

Stiles wipes at his eyes with his palm.

He seriously needs to find a backbone.

"So why don't we start now, okay? What's going on, kid?"

He can't he can't he can't he can't doesn't he get it doesn't he fucking understand when he should just let it be I'm protecting you I'm fucking protecting everyone I don't want to tell you I can't tell you I want to tell you but I can't tell you so JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!

There's too much at stake if he speaks the truth. He might die a little bit more on the inside if he does. But then he might even if he does. In fact he's positive he will. It would probably hurt his dad even more. And he doesn't know what the consequences would be if does. For Scott and the others. Hell, he could get his dad killed. It's better that he's still in the dark.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. No sounds leave it. The hesitation appears to seal his fate because his dad snaps "The truth, Stiles."

They both know he won't so he just snaps his mouth shut instead.

"You know what?" His dad says, voice raising. Stiles steps back at this because he can't actually remember when his dad last yelled at him. Not like this. "I don't want to hear it. Not if it means another lie."

"Dad, please…"

_Don't hate me don't hate me please don't hate me… _

"Just go to your room, Stiles," his dad says. He drops his hands and sighs tiredly. "I don't want to see your face right now."

_god no please don't hate love me don't hate me don't don't don't _

"Dad," Stiles pleads. He tentatively steps forward, tugging at his arm.

"I SAID GET TO YOUR ROOM!" his dad shouts, flinching from the touch. Stiles freezes. He's done it now. He's fucking finally done it.

"Okay," Stiles whispers brokenly before slowly making his way to his room. He stalls at the top of the stairs, listening to his father's attempts at levelling his own breathing and anger, as Stiles own control slips through his fingers.

He can't bear to hear it anymore so he goes to his room and sinks heavily into his bed.

He buries his face into his pillow and screams into it.

He's not sure if anyone can hear him.

* * *

His dad ends up grounding him.

He doesn't put up much of a fight.

In fact he's grateful of it. He relishes it. Because if he's being honest? He's pretty much fed up of it all. He's done. What with the clusterfuck that was last year and now, with Heather – whose mother was friends with his own, who he used to share bubble baths with, who was once his best friend until they grew apart and soon Stiles had a new BFF in form of Scott – and the way she had looked lying pale and dead on the morgue table.

And then there was Gerard.

Fucking Gerard.

He'd taken what was already shit and then shit some more on it.

He'd lied to his dad about that night. He knew his dad knew it, but Stiles figured that he'd been so relieved that he was alive, that he let it be dropped. He couldn't ever say what truly happened, like some ridiculous thought block. This particular titbit wasn't that he _wouldn't_ say what had fully happened. It was more that he _couldn't_. It wasn't intentional that he couldn't say anything all those times his mouth opens and then closes. It was there, just under the skin, strangling him.

But if anyone in the know asked, he'd say what he's been practicing in his head; _Gerard got me. Beat me. I was a message. Don't worry, I didn't say anything._

It was a half-truth, at least.

He shudders, remembering.

Now he's even lying to himself.

He's somewhere between the fourth and fifth day of his somewhat self-imposed exile – consisting of school, Lacrosse, avoiding most people, occasionally texting, and the folds of his bed – when his dad appears in his room.

"When I said you should stay in your room," his dad declares somewhere over his shoulder. "I didn't mean you should come up here to die."

withering, he's withering, actually

"Are you sick?"

In hindsight he probably shouldn't have resorted to this typical adolescent morose behaviour (_talk about typecasting, Stiles_) because all it seemed to be doing was bring him to the attention of his dad. Again. And that meant communicating. Expressing woes. Identifying needs.

can't tell can't fucking tell get out no don't stay make it better please don't

Stiles shrugs, practices a quiet little grunt and shuffles further under the covers.

A hand is suddenly placed against his clammy forehead and he blinks in surprise.

"I'm fine," he croaks. He hasn't the energy to shake it off. It's nice and cool and just a little too comforting, so he closes his eyes and relishes it while it's still there.

"You feel a little warm," his dad clucks at him and then the hand is gone and it's stupid but he wants to cry. After all the shit that got him here, it's the simple gesture of his dad taking his hand away that threatens to leave him a blubbering wreck. The covers are suddenly rudely ripped away leaving him shivering at the sudden coolness. "But I think that's more to do with the fact you're slowly suffocating your life away."

_touché _

"Hey," Stiles protests with a feeble flail of the arms, trying to gather the covers. He's wearing, admittedly, a rather sweaty and rumpled over-sized t-shirt and a pair of sweats, but _still_… "Dignity!"

His dad snorts on the way to his window, pushing it open. Stiles belatedly wonders if there's still some mountain ash lying around because, he reminds himself, he's done with this shit. On the other hand, he's pretty sure no one has even tried to enter his room this way for quite some time now. Not even Scott because, despite being officially broken up with Allison, he'd seemed to have taken up most of this time with Isaac instead. Which was both disturbing and also disappointing.

I'm done with this shit, remember?

Stiles takes a minute to process that things with his dad, in this moment, are alarmingly normal. They're not shouting. He's not asking him for the truth. He's not asking him to talk. They're back to pretending. Stiles knows now how his dad felt when he said _'maybe I just don't want to feel any worse then I already do by ah… having to yell at my son.'_

He suddenly feels like vomiting.

"Okay, kid," his dad tells him, throwing a fresh shirt and pants at him. "You're gonna go have a shower before I end having to fumigate you and then you're coming downstairs for something to eat."

Stiles agrees with the shower because he does smell a little funky but he turns his nose up at the food. He really can't stomach it.

"You gotta eat," his dad reminds him sternly. "You want me to do the Hoff metaphor?"

Stiles rolls his eyes at this and shakes his head. For as long as he can remember his dad had always referenced Hasselhoff, in his Baywatch days, whenever he turned food away. _"You know if I don't eat, I can't protect anyone. Think about the Hoff – if you take the hit, they'll all drown."_

Stiles, as a kid, had actually thought it had been pretty cool. Now it was pretty much pathetic, but it was typical of his dad.

"Good," his dad tells him, tossing a towel into his lap. "Dinner will be ready in twenty."

His dad takes further pity on him halfway through dinner, much to Stiles dismay.

"I give in," his dad tells him when it's obvious he's not actually trying to eat anything. He's spent most of it chewing slowly and pushing the rest of the food around his plate.

"You do?" he asks after painfully swallowing a lump of chicken.

"I'm not completely un-grounding you. I'm just releasing some of the restrictions."

Stiles raises an eyebrow, feigning interest.

"Call Scott," his dad goes on, clearing his plate and glass from the table. "Go to his. Ask him over. Do _something_ with him."

Stiles stares disbelieving at him.

"I've got to go into work anyway," his dad says with a shrug. "It'll make me feel better if you're being supervised."

Now it was Stiles turn to snort "You call Scott supervision?"

His dad just stares at him and it's like a bitter pill. Yeah, it's still there, just under the surface.

_Trust you? _

_Scott I trust _

"Okay, whatever," Stiles mumbles, going back to pushing vegetables and chicken around with his fork.

His dad nods, satisfied, and grabs at his keys from the side table.

He stops by his side.

"I'm still mad at you," he doesn't say anything else. Instead he plants a soft kiss to the top of his head before leaving Stiles alone at the table.

I want to tell I want to tell I want to tell I want to tell I want to tell but I can't

* * *

He ends up throwing the rest of the food in the trash.

He doesn't call Scott either. Misery loves company is highly overrated.

Instead he plans to veg out and find solace in his marathon box set of 'It's Always Sunny…' There was nothing better than a full out rendition of 'Dayman' for all his neighbors' to hear. He's about 4 episodes in when he realises he's hungry. Not for dried chicken and cold vegetables. He needs comfort food. Processed and too much sugar.

Typically there's nothing in. Which just highlights how both out of the loop he and his dad have been.

It's the reason he's here now – on an epic journey for skittles and lucky charms – in a two-bit 24/7. It's here that everything changes. When the truth comes to a head. When his despair becomes terror. Because Allison and the very much alive Gerard Argent are here too. Grocery shopping, of all things.

He freezes, the basket of loose items dropping from his hands. It clatters to the floor with a resounding clash, the items spilling and skittering across the aisle.

He sees Allison jump on the other side of the display that's between them.

"Stiles?" she says. He doesn't know why it sounds like a question. It's obviously him. By the look of concern on her face it probably meant something else entirely.

She has her arm looped through the older Argent's arm. They both look normal and innocent.

Harmless.

There must be a look of alarm on his face. Or disgust. Or any other form of expression that vaguely evoked horror because Allison glances at her grandfather and then extricates her arm.

"I know how it looks," Allison says. She attempts a step forward but stops when Stiles flinches. "But he's okay now. Whatever Derek and Peter did? It worked. He's okay."

Stiles shakes his head. Or maybe it was just his whole body.

"Stiles?" Allison asks again. She takes another step forward. Gerard follows. There's a look of concern on his face too but Stiles can see that his eyes are dead. Mocking him. Devouring him.

"No," Stiles says. He steps back and stumbles over a jar of marshmallow fluff, rare for Beacon Hills, and grabs at a shelf to steady himself.

"Stiles, please-"

"Mr Stilinski-"

He feels like he's being cornered, rounded up. Allison looks genuine. Gerard does not.

"Stay the fuck away," Stiles snaps. Allison flinches to a stop at the venom in his voice. Gerard looks at him with a bemused smile behind her shoulder.

_You fucker _

"I know that Boyd and Erica were in your basement," Stiles announces. By the look on Allison's face it's obvious she already knew. Which meant she was probably involved. It wasn't surprising, really, or even that shocking. Allison truly lost her shit for a while after her mother was killed.

"That was… misguided," Allison tries. Bitterness swells in him. Was that an apology? She glances back at Gerard who quickly, and rather expertly, schools his features. "We all got a little unfocused for a while."

"I am sorry for any distress caused," Gerard offers with freakin' liar liar pants on fire eyes. He wants to grab the nearest sharpest object and stab it right through the crotchety bastard's eyes. All he can see is a packet of bendy straws though. He's not sure what damage it could cause but he could die trying, right?

"I was there too. In the basement," Stiles decides on the shock factor with just the power of his voice alone. "Did you know that?"

Allison's eyes widen a little.

She didn't she didn't she didn't she didn't she didn't

"He beat the crap out of me as some kind of message to Scott," Stiles tells her. His voice is hard, nasty, provoking. He needs her to choose, though… _choose me over him. Trust me believe me._

Allison shakes her head a little, hand at her mouth.

It's almost here now, right there on the tip of his tongue. He wants to scream it out, just release it all in one fucking heated exclamation, bent double, gasping for breath. Gerard looks at him with mocking and taunting eyes. He's already taken so much, he can't let him have Allison as well.

Instead of screaming hysterically (because all that will achieve is prove to Allison that he's just a raving and hysterical lunatic) Stiles lets himself calm, a cooling control takes hold of his heart. Cold and calculated, if you will.

"He tried to rape me, Allison" he says quietly. He watches as Allison's eyes harden and fill with tears and slowly his own heart blackens further. She's already lost. She shakes her head hard, viciously and Stiles flinches. "Sexual assault, bad touch. Call it what you want."

He takes in a shuddering breath, remembers the leer, the sound of Erica's whimpering…

_He's down on the floor. Taken there with a great big side-swipe to the face. _

_Head reeling from the multiple blows. _

_His side is on fire from a particular nasty kick. _

_There's noises from somewhere else in the room. The sound of a struggle. He can't tell from who. _

_When he opens his eyes Gerard is grinning down at him. _

_Stiles blinks the man in and out of focus. _

_Gerard slaps his face again when his blinks start to slow. He starts to straddle him, jostling him further. _

_Stiles gasps in pain. _

_He never even had a chance before, to defend himself. Everything had come out of the blue. Even now. _

_Stiles feebly tries to push the old man off him. _

_Gerard effortlessly pins his arms down. _

"_Don't you know little boys shouldn't run with wolves," Gerard leers at him. _

_His voice is hot against his face. _

"_Can't you see? They're an abomination." _

_He had used that word once too. _

_He knows these people. They might not be human but they were people. _

_He catches sight of Erica, still hanging, over Gerard's shoulder. Her eyes fill with tears and pain. Boyd's looking wild, struggling against the restraints. Each movement showers him with sparks. _

"_Fuck you," Stiles manages to spit into the older man's face. _

_Gerard's face changes instantly. It goes from disdain and leering to full-out rage. _

"_You'd seriously choose them? Derek and his little pack?" _

_So, it wasn't just about Scott then. Gerard was actually losing it. Losing this because there's no way he'd break him into his way of thinking. He'd never hurt someone because they were different. He'd never cut someone in half. He'd never lock an entire family in a basement and burn them to death. _

_Stiles grins at him. _

_He feels his lip split further. _

_His mouth fills with blood. _

"_Every time, motherfucker. Every time." _

"_YOU STUPID LITTLE INSOLENT CHILD!" the words roar over him, spittle hitting his face. _

_In that split second he realises his mistake. Because this is the man who taught his daughter to think it was okay to lock an entire family in a basement and burn them to death. Humans too. _

_Gerard was more than a monster than any of the others could ever be. _

_He strikes him hard against the side of the face again. His face explodes in heat and pain, head snapping hard to the side. _

"_You disobey me?" Gerard hisses at him. He grabs stiles by front of his jersey, pulls him right in front of his face and shakes him before dropping him hard back down. Stiles can't even break his fall. "I'll show you." _

_He feels hands on him again. _

_Viciously pulling him closer. _

_Hands grabbing him around the waist. _

"_Wha you doin?" Stiles slurs at him, head still spinning. _

"_You should learn to obey your elders, boy," the words are thick and too loud, like he's making his way through molasses. _

_Despite the head spinning, Stiles realises what's happening, it sobers him a little… of course, by then it's probably too late. His eyes widen. He tries pushing at him again but he's like a lead weight. _

_He feels his Lacrosse shorts being tugged and loosened. _

"_Get off me," he says, struggling against it. He hears another whimper. Erica probably. "Fuck you… get off… shit, Gerard please. You don't want to do this," Stiles pleads, voice begging. Sobbing. _

_The shorts are being tugged now. _

_There's screaming too. It's loud and spinning in his ears. When Gerard claps a hand over his mouth he realises it's him. "Keep quiet." _

_The whimper turns into a small chorus of growls. _

_Stiles pants against the hand, wriggling his whole body against the weight on him, which probably wasn't making the situation any better, not when there's a geriatric perv who gets his jollies from molesting and controlling sixteen year old boys. _

_He bites at the palm instead. It fills his mouth with blood and he gags against it. _

"_You little shit," Gerard gasps, withdrawing his hand quickly. It gives Stiles enough leverage to push Gerard further away, but half of his body is still pinned. He hopes if he hollers enough it will bring him, and the others, to the attention of the Argent's neighbors, at least. Gerard tries to grab at his face again but Stiles turns his face away, practically rolling it into the carpet (and what sicko has carpet in the basement, anyway?). He shuts his eyes tightly and hums a scream against tight lips. "I said shut it." _

_There's suddenly the sound of a door clicking open. Gerard stills on top of him. _

_Stiles freezes too. _

"_What the hell's going on?" _

_Chris Argent _

_Stiles lets out a little sob, feels more rising in his chest. _

_This can go either way. _

_The sound of soft footsteps can be heard and then stop. _

"_Dad?" _

"_Just leave, son." _

_Gerard's making no further movement on him but then he's not letting up on the pressure either. Looks like even the old man has some issues over raping someone in front of his son. _

"_I can't do that, dad." _

_There's an unmistakable sound clicking into place and then silence. _

_Stiles cracks his eyes open and rolls his sore neck and head back. Chris has a gun pointed right at Gerard's head. _

"_Get off him." _

_Gerard doesn't try to move off him, but his hands release him. _

"_I said get off him," Chris spits out, yanking his dad back. _

_Stiles lets out a breath that he didn't even know he was holding, it comes out strangled and gasping and then he's scrambling back and away. _

_Chris has Gerard pinned up against the wall in seconds, gun rammed in the junction of his neck and chin. _

"_You okay?" he asks. _

_It takes a second to process that he's actually asking him. _

"_Stiles?" _

_He blinks and nods, shakily standing, pulling his shorts tighter. _

"_Get out of here," Chris nods over his shoulder. _

_Gerard is alarmingly calm. He smiles coldly at him. _

_Stiles gulps the sudden urge to vomit over the ridiculous red carpet under his feet. _

_He blinks stupidly. _

"_Go." _

_Stiles glances at Erica and Boyd. Erica's fangs are protruded. She's managed to bite through her gag. _

"_Don't worry about them," Chris says, seeing his hesitation. He nods in their direction. "I'll let them go." _

"_How can I trust you?" Stiles asks. His voice wavers and hurts after all the screaming. _

"_I'm prepared to put a bullet in my dad's head for you, kid. You better start believing me." _

_His breathing is loud, even in his own head. Realistically Stiles knows Argent would presume that the cops would be crawling all over the place within minutes. He is the Sheriff's son after all. He wouldn't want to run the risk of someone finding two missing teenagers trussed up in their basement. _

"_He's not lying," Erica finally tells him, face back normal. "I can hear his heartbeat." _

_Stiles shakes his head. He feels tears fill his eyes. _

"_Go," she says. "It's okay. Get out of here." _

_Another shake to his head and the little bitch actually has the nerve to flash her eyes at him and growl. "I said get out here." _

_A glance to Boyd shows that he agrees with her, although he's not wolfing out, but simply nodding his head. Boyd's more subtle, more calming. It's almost soothing to look at his face – oh, fuck, he's probably doing some wolfy shenanigans on him. _

"_Okay," Stiles says. He sounds like he's going to fall into full hysterics. He hesitates again before looking them both in the eyes. "I love you guys." _

_And then he's gone, tripping over his own feet and staggering up the stairs. He doesn't slow down until he's at least halfway between the Argent's and home. Slowing to a dragging place, he keeps a hand pressed to his side, pushing the horror down, numbness filling his whole being. He practices words. _

_I'm okay I'm fine seriously I'm fine dad, I said I'm okay _

_He makes up a feeble story about the other team _

_He ignores the great big whopping holes to the story and hopes he doesn't ask, doesn't question it, doesn't give him another reason to lie. _

_And all the while, he's so ashamed _

Allison is staring at him with hurt eyes. Tears slowly leak and then she's actually crying, face distorting.

But she's not crying for him.

She's crying for herself

Because she doesn't want to believe him.

"Stop it," she manages to gasp out. She puts her hand out between them. He looks at it and considers just grabbing it and dragging her out of the clutches of the poisonous man stood just behind her. But he doesn't. Because she's already tainted with it. She's jaded and dangerous and he can't help but feel completely crushed. He's just opened his heart up. He's told the full truth. The truth that's been eating his soul up for months.

And she doesn't believe him.

It's like a sucker-punch to the gut. It hurts just as much as the physicality of Gerard's violence.

"Take it back," Allison pleads.

Stiles shakes his head.

"I said take it back," she cries out, voice nearing hysterics.

He can't help but think that she's not a pretty crier. She goes full out though. You gotta give her props. A little harsh, right. Stiles is beyond caring by now.

"He tried to rape me," Stiles tells her again.

"You can't say things like that," she suddenly yells at him, whirling away. She strikes at the display. He watches a few boxes of Oreos fly off the top. "You can't say shit like that, Stiles."

"Why?" Stiles asks, staring at Gerard. Allison is busy crying into her bow-and arrow-killing hands so she doesn't see Gerard smile, baring his teeth at him. Stiles tenses, anticipating violence. He tries to straighten his shoulders and stand taller – don't cower don't cower don't cower – "It's the truth."

"Stiles-" Allison starts. He shifts his attention to her. She's looking at him as though he's more unhinged then any of her psycho family could ever be.

"Mr Stilinski-" and he's distracted enough to realise Gerard's crept up on him. He has his hand on his arm in seconds. The voice is full of painted concern and worry. His face is just the same.

Stiles shoves him away as though the touch burns. Gerard does a good job of looking like a doddery old man – he staggers away, collapsing against Allison.

Stiles take the opportunity to bolt. He practically runs down the clerk who appears out of nowhere – face flushed with the obvious signs of a quick-fix joint out the back. Stiles just about makes out the startled _'what's going on?' _as he takes in the ruined display and Gerard at Allison's feet.

He doesn't look back – just barrels on right through the front of the store – and continues running.

* * *

He runs blindly into the street. Luckily there's no cars whizzing by and he spins in a circle, brain whirling into place a few seconds later, processing his next move.

Some might presume he's in a blind panic.

Ironically, he's not.

Logistically, he knows he should head towards the back of the building, because it was the most direct route towards his jeep, but he runs the risk of bumping into Allison and Gerard again. He's, thankfully, not actually left it in the small car park that was attached to the store, but two blocks back because he'd not wanted to see anyone or be forced into pleasantries. Stiles was the Sheriff's kid, after all, and everyone knew him.

He turns sharply on his feet, running off further towards his right, knowing he'd be able to slip down a small alley and take another route. It might add another block on his journey, but at least he was putting necessary distance between himself and the Argent's.

He hears the familiar ding of the store door opening and an even familiar "Stiles!" being shouted after him.

Stiles heart jumps in his chest and he quickens his run, legs stumbling into a sprint. He darts off to the left, heading for the side path, knowing that the probability of him reaching the alley was now slim to none. Allison was a hunter now. He imagines an arrow being fired into his back. Yeah, he was sure there'd be one there by now, if she'd had the means to do so.

The only other place that was open at this time of the evening was a Chinese restaurant – it's lantern still lit outside, a warm glow being emitted from inside, showing that there were still some patrons inside.

He makes a split decision to enter – he'll just run through, exit the back, jump the fence and run the three blocks to the safety of his jeep – and practically falls through the door, knocking into the small table near the entry-way. A small stand full of menu's shake violently.

"Sorry," he pants, roughly shoving the small scattered items from their precarious ledge back into the centre of the table before continuing to rush through the assortment of tables. He vaguely recognises the man behind the greeting desk who raises his hand in an aborted wave and then drop it with a frown.

He heads for the back – just off-centre from the rest of the tables, tucked away in a quieter and more secluded part – and immediately comes to a stop.

Because there's two people he knows. They're in a booth, bodies pressed together, wrapped up in a kiss.

He can't speak – partly because he's out of breath – and partly because they seem to be caught up in the moment that Stiles doesn't want to be the one to ruin it. The one who announces what's there, just on the outside.

He needs to. He knows that. They deserve to know about all of their impending doom. And… it wasn't like he'd planned to have to say it – he'd thought about it, considered it, but then ignorance and denial won out – not to these two people, anyway.

So he just stares.

Jackson's the first to notice him.

"Stilinski?" he says against Lydia's lips, eyes looking over the strawberry-blonde's head.

"Stilin…?" Lydia repeats in confusion, pushing away from him, hands pressing onto his shoulders. "What?"

Jackson nods in his direction, eyes crinkling into some vague type of emotion. Stiles guesses he'd spent too much time with Derek since he'd been de-Kanima'd.

Lydia turns to look at him. Her face instantly changes from confusion and just a _little_ disdain and scrunches into something he'd could only presume was concern.

"Stiles?" she asks, detangling a foot from where she'd hooked it over Jackson's ankle. "What's wrong?"

He lets out a shuddering breath.

_Seriously_? He's going to lose it front of these two? His unrequited crush-of-a-goddess and the douchebag he'd lost to.

"What's happened?" Lydia says, more sharply. She moves so fast and is in front of his face before he can even blink. "Is someone hurt?"

Stiles flinches back from her and then hesitantly shakes his head.

He feels his eyes burn.

He glances towards his right again, half expecting to see a gloating Gerard there… he needs to go, they all need to go, especially Jackson. Shit, he really needs to find his words.

"Stilinski?" Jackson repeats. He slowly rises from the table and looks around him as though he sensed impending danger. His eyes settle on Stiles chest in a quizzical manner as though this was the first time he'd heard someone's heart like it was going to beat right out of their chest. Maybe it was. Jackson raises his head to look at Stiles, voice a bit growly. Stiles blinks in surprise. "Is it your dad? McCall?"

Stiles shakes his head again.

"You're shaking," Lydia announces as she puts her hand around his arm. She's looking at him with such a scared look he wants nothing more to laugh it off and tell her he's fine. "You're really freaking me out."

"I… I… was at the… store," he manages to stutter out, breathing hard, causing big gaps between words. A little strangled laugh finds its way out. "Skittles and lucky charms. Oreos were involved too-"

"Stiles!" Jackson snaps and he flinches again.

"Stop yelling at him!" Lydia yells back, hand pinching around Stiles elbow.

"Gerard's back," he announces flatly, voice strangely calm. He stares down at Lydia's hand detachedly.

"What?!" Jackson stiffens and then suddenly he's out from behind the table and in between the opening to the rest of the restaurant and Stiles and Lydia. This was surprising until he realises he's probably standing between the rest of the restaurant and Lydia. Which was both foolish and strangely romantically heroic. "Where?"

"At the store," Stiles informs him. He can feel the hysteria reach into his voice. The shaking was worsening too. Lydia's eyes were darting between Jackson and Stiles, conflicted, although she doesn't let go of his arm. "Allison is with him."

Jackson turns with a questionable frown.

"Willingly," Stiles confirms with a shaky nod. He glances at Lydia and feels the panic rise. He knows they'll be here any minute – they must have seen him enter – and he wonders how he can tell her without actually saying the words. He grabs at both of her own arms, causing her to snap both of her eyes back to him, locking on his own. "Don't let him near me, Lyds-"

She frowns at him but nods.

"Sit down before you fall down," she tells him, appearing to decide her werewolf boyfriend could handle himself. She ushers him to a seat somewhere behind him and he drops heavily, as though his strings had just been cut.

"We should be running," he reminds her, voice softly detached and numb.

"We're not running," Lydia tells him angrily.

He looks up at her in surprise and sees her standing determinedly in front of him, hands on her hips. Her face softens and then she reaches out to touch his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into her soft palm. "Are you crying?" she asks quietly. She needn't speak so softly – he's pretty sure by the way Jackson glances back at them, that his wolfy hearing has picked it up.

He pulls away from the touch and wipes at his face with a shrug.

"Stiles?" Lydia asks him.

He glances at her again and really studies her. This is a completely different Lydia Martin to the one he knows. He's seen many. Popular, vulnerable, slightly off-her head, predictably indifferent and aloof. And he's loved each and every one. But he's never seen this side of her before. It's thrown him for a loop, which maybe why he finds his mouth working against his own directives.

"It wasn't the other team," Stiles tells her. He sees the meeter and greeter from before approach Jackson. He whispers something and gives an apologetic shrug. Jackson nods and says something back. Stiles watches him walk away, back around the corner of the wall.

"I figured," Lydia nods back at him. "What with _that_ speech."

"Guys," Jackson coughs uncomfortably. "That was the son of the owner. His dad's not happy at the 'disturbance'. He wants us to leave. It's probably a good idea anyway. I'm not really in the mood for a reunion."

"Just gives us a moment-" Lydia glares at him. "These shoes were not made for running."

"I already asked the guy-" Jackson identically glares back at her. "I also asked him to stall Allison and Gerard if they turn up."

Lydia nods in satisfaction and Jackson huffs in response.

"They will," Stiles says quietly. He's losing his nerve. Pretence is there, just out of reach. "I'm sure Allison saw me come in here."

"Seriously?" Jackson looks at him, peeved and shrugs his arms out in exasperation. "You don't think you could have lead with that?"

"Jackson, we're trying _not_ to be thrown out, remember?" Lydia says coolly and then turns her attention back to him. She grabs a chair from a table and sets it firmly in front of him before gracefully sitting down. "Stiles, continue."

"We should go," Stile says, ignoring her command. His voice sounds strangled in his throat. "They could be here any minute."

"We're tucked away in the back," Lydia announces calmly. She pats at his knee. "We'll be fine."

Stiles chuckles for no other reason than Lydia's statement was insane. He sees her and Jackson exchange another look of concern – god, what rabbit hole did he fall down? There's no 'evidence' to indicate anything was going to be fine; Jackson was a newly turned werewolf with control issues, Stiles was a hair's breadth away from a full panic attack and Lydia was one of the few who'd been kept in the dark.

"Stiles?" Lydia prompts. She gave his foot a little kick. "Gerard was the one who beat you up?"

Stiles nods and wraps his arms around his stomach, feeling a phantom pain across his body.

"Okay," Lydia nods again. She keeps her foot pressed against his own. "What else happened?"

Trust Lydia Martin to know there was more. Wasn't a beating enough? He raises his eyebrows at her but she shoots him down with a pointed look.

"Stiles?"

He can't answer her and feels surprise tears come again, feeling them escape this time, and he hunches forward, hiding his face in his hands. He can feel the despair tightening in his chest. It's the same feeling that keeps him awake at night, the same that sometimes exhausts him into a disturbed sleep, the same that's there when he awakes and plagues him throughout the day.

"I want to tell my dad," Stiles admits thickly, rocking slightly. A sob gets stuck in his throat. "But I don't know how."

"I know," Lydia whispers. He doesn't have the energy to challenge her on this. He can feel Jackson's eyes on him. "So tell me instead."

Stiles shakes his head again. He feels more tears escape. Lydia tugs a hand down, snaking her hand over his own and squeezes.

"You have to," she reminds him. Her voice feels strained, mingled with a pained passion. "Look what he's doing to you."

Stiles drops his other hand and stares at how she has clasped their hands together. He swallows convulsively. He wonders why he's not hyperventilating with panic – he feels like he should be – but there's still some control within him. Control over who he tells and how he tells it. And, really… he's safe. He's safe with Lydia and Jackson. Two people he's never been particularly that close to are, strangely, the safest he's ever felt being with.

"Hmm..." he gulps again and nods. "He didn't just try and beat me up."

Lydia's eyes harden and Jackson whips his head back to look at him. There's horror and disgust on his face. Stiles instantly feels ashamed.

"Stiles?" Jackson starts to ask.

Stiles just stares back, breaths now only just starting to speed up.

"Are you trying to say Gerard…?" Lydia asks, ignoring the incredulous look Jackson is giving her. "What? I'm just clarifying, okay? Because we all have to start being more specific and honest 'cause nothing has made sense this last year-"

Lydia's voice is now nearing hysterics and he thinks tears are forming.

"No," Stiles attempts to reassure her. He squeezes her hand and smiles watery at her. "He tried to… but Allison's dad walked in on us."

She stares down at their hands seemingly surprised at his weak attempt to make her feel better.

"He knew?" she asks in disbelief.

"He got Gerard off me, helped me escape," Stiles nods and thinks back to that night and the two sets of eyes who'd watched him leave. He feels his voice shake and more tears come. "Boyd and Erica were there too. Gerard had them tied up in their basement. I'm not sure but I think Allison helped him."

Lydia and Jackson glance at each other in horror.

"Chris let them go too-"

His only hope that statement was true was his belief that Erica had been telling the truth when she'd told him she heard his heartbeat.

"I haven't told anyone," Stiles admits quietly. He feels lighter now that he has, some of the pressure has gone, but now he has, something else has loosened, and he feels like he might just fall into a vat of his own tears. Where's his analogy of drowning when he needs it? He can quote that, hide behind it even when it's the truth, say it bland and methodically, and still be able to paint a smile on and say 'I'm fine' over and over again

"Oh, Stilinski," Lydia reprimands him, eyes shining.

"Can we go now, Martin?" Stiles asks with a throaty voice and he knows that there's tears freely falling and now he's started he can't seem to stop them.

"Absolutely," Lydia agrees, nodding enthusiastically. "Most definitely."

There's a commotion at the front of the restaurant and Stiles flinches when hears a disgruntled _"Hey, you can't go back there." _He watches Jackson tense and mutter "Shit."

Lydia helps him rise. She presses her body into his side and wraps an arm around his waist. He's shaking so much that he's sure she's the only thing keeping him upright.

Allison rounds the corner, movements still flush with anger and distress, and stumbles to a stop in surprise when she registers Jackson and then, over his shoulder, Lydia.

She looks at Stiles with anger and tries to push past, but Jackson shakes his head and moves to the side, blocking her from moving any further.

"Just go, Allison," he tells her.

She shakes her head, hair flying wildly.

"Oh no," she spat out, staring directly at Stiles. "You don't get to say that bullshit to _my_ friends. You just don't."

"We're friends?" Jackson asks in such a tone Stiles doesn't know if the enquiry was genuine. He had a complete poker face. "I thought I creep you out."

"Shut up, Jackson," Allison snaps at him.

"Hey!" Jackson said, obviously bristled by Allison's response (by Lydia's small, hardly there inhale, she too was shocked by her friend's reaction. _Hey_, he wanted to remind them, this is Allison Argent: Sometime Psycho Hunter) "Maybe you should just go, okay. Stiles doesn't want to talk to you," Jackson says. His voice is being quietly controlled but Stiles can still make out a small tremble flitter across his shoulders. Gerard appears, from behind the partition a few moments later and Jackson tenses further but doesn't try and move away, effectively still blocking Lydia and Stiles safely behind him. "… or Gerard."

"Well," Allison says, folding her arms across her chest. He's seen her take this stance before, in hunter mode, and his brain fills in the blanks – hi-tech bow and arrow at her back, a small arsenal or weapons around her waist. "I'm not leaving until he starts telling the truth."

"Allison?" Lydia speaks up, body still pressed tightly against his side.

"Lydia? You don't believe him, do you?" Allison's voice sounds pleading.

She's already damaged.

He's hurting her more.

Maybe he should just take it back. Stop hurting her, stop hurting everyone around him. How many people will be hurt by this little declaration? How many relationships will be destroyed? Besides, did he really want people to know that he had just upped and left Boyd and Erica Behind?

What was one more lie, anyway?

"You're my friend," Lydia says instead and shakes her head. He's stopped crying by now –he's thankful for that, at least, because he really didn't want that old fucker to see him like that – but it didn't change that he wanted to weep for the girl in front of him. Lydia squeezes her arm a little tighter around him as though she had sensed his uncertainty. "You're one of my best friends… and surprisingly… I don't actually have a lot of them."

Allison stares at the two them and for a second he thinks Lydia's going to release him.

Gerard looks at the three of them as though they're nothing. He actually looks bored. Stiles figures after using passive aggression and words to poison his granddaughter, this little set to was almost anti-climactic. It was a far cry from arson and genocide.

"But I've known Stiles a lot longer," Lydia finally says, shaking her head again. "And I know he wouldn't lie about this."

Allison doesn't say anything at first.

And then she laughs.

"Seriously?" she scoff at them. "He lies all the time to his dad. He even accused Derek of murder, when all along he knew the real murderer was still out there," she realises what she's said then and shakes her head, wiping at her face. "I mean he is, but he wasn't then."

"That wasn't me," Stiles finally finds his voice, pushing Lydia away from him. He takes a daring step closer. "That was all Scott."

"You still lied."

"You're basing all of this? … This belief that I'm some sort of pathological liar on the fact that I backed up your boyfriend?"

"Stiles," Lydia tries to intervene. She tries to reach for his arm, snagging him back.

"No, Lydia. She needs to hear this," he doesn't know where this sudden courage has come from, maybe it was because he's still on the wave of adrenalin, and he won't let the tears come, so there's some form of electrified energy fuelling him on.

"I just want you to take it back," Allison says again. She sounds quieter now, a little defeated, but it still angers him she that she is unwilling to even contemplate that he might be telling her the truth. Why can't she admit it? She already knows how dangerous he is, so why the hell is she so unwilling? "He wouldn't do that, Stiles. I know he's done a lot of things, but he wouldn't do _that_."

Stiles can see in the look Gerard has now that he's realised Stiles is beyond he's breaking point, that any indecisiveness on his own part has truly flown the coop, that the next words out his own mouth are not just meant to hurt but to make her see the bigger picture.

"Can you hear yourself? Are you that delusional?"

Allison sets her jaw.

"Fuck you, Stiles."

"He used you as bait, Allison," Stiles yells at her. He didn't care that he was drawing attention to himself. The few remaining customers were now moving around in their chairs to look at them, some had actually moved closer. Stiles could see, past Jackson and Gerard, the staff member from before, in a heated argument with an older man, who he could only presume was both his manager and his father. "His own granddaughter."

"I told you, he's not like that anymore."

"Because of Derek and Peter?"

"That's what I said," Allison glares at him. She goes to push past Jackson again, but Jackson steps into place. Was she seriously considering going into a full-on scrap mode in a public arena. "Are you going to repeat everything I say?"

"Only the ridiculous ones" Stiles dead-pans.

"What?" Allison asks, arms out wide. "Is the concept of not being okay and then being okay hard for you to get?"

"Wake up and smell the fucking roses, Allison," Stiles snaps at her. He feels Lydia dig her nails into his arm. He's not sure if she's trying to pull him back into sanity or she's just scared enough that she's accidently inflicting pain. "They helped Jackson, not your grandpa. Gerard is a fucking psycho. He taught Kate that it was okay to seduce a sixteen year old and then burn his entire family to death. She locked them in a basement. Derek and his sister lost their entire family. Peter went insane. And Gerard thinks it's okay. He can actually justify it."

Lydia's trying to drag him back and his throat is both hurting and closing up on him. _Fuck_, has he been screaming again?

"Get him out of here, Lydia," Jackson's telling Lydia. He's got his hand on Allison's arm, keeping her in place, and one brazenly across Gerard's chest who now seems outraged that someone dare touch his granddaughter.

Lydia nods and tries to wrap her entire frame around his body, which was hysterical, really, because he's so much taller than her and he's fighting it all the way, struggling against her. He knows they'll both end up on the floor if he continues.

"Why the hell are you helping him?" Allison snaps at Jackson. She snatches her arm out of his hold.

"Because I know how manipulative Gerard can be," Jackson says, turning a levelled gaze towards the older Argent. "And when it comes down it, I'll take Stilinski's word over his."

Stiles stills at that. Wow, go Jydia! Stiles thinks affectionately. He's still breathing hard, panting too fast, and he just decides to stop struggling, clasping his hands over Lydia's against his chest. He feels her press her face into his back, body trembling.

"Allison, the young man is obviously unwell and saying a lot of things that doesn't make sense," Gerard says, pushing Jackson's hand away. He gathers her hand up in his own. "He's quite convincing because he clearly believes it."

Stiles doesn't miss how a small growl flutters from Jackson or how Gerard smiles at it.

"Think about it, Allison," Stiles says ignoring the unnerving way Gerard reacted to Jackson's small faux-pas. "How would I know about Erica and Boyd being in the basement if I wasn't there?"

"I don't know," Allison admits quietly.

"They were tied up with some sort of electrified restraint," Stiles continues. His voice is small, drifting, whimpering clear in his ears. "I tried to help them, but it burnt my fingers."

Allison's not moving, not saying anything, but worryingly she's still has her hand wrapped up in Gerard's.

There's a murmur from behind, clearly others have heard what he's implying.

"There was red carpet too," and he laughs again, shaking his head. "I mean, seriously, who has a red carpet in the basement? Must have been a fucker to clean my blood out of it."

Allison's staring at him with wide eyes. She's taking in big and laboured breaths.

"You can ask your dad," Stiles tells her.

"What?" she finally croaks at him.

"Your dad," Stiles repeats. "He stopped Gerard from hurting me more, let me and the others go."

Allison shakes her head a little.

"He tied two innocent teenagers up and tortured them, Allison," Stiles says, voice determined, clinging to the receding adrenalin. He feels Lydia squeezing him again. "He tried to rape me Allison. I'm sorry if it hurts for you to hear it, but it happened."

Gerard seems, now, to have completely bored of the whole thing – now that he'd ensured he'd messed with him further – and tugs Allison further behind him. Allison doesn't protest and tries to hide in the shadow of the wall.

"Mr Stilinski, you're clearly unwell," he says, sneering at Jackson. "I suggest you step aside and let me take the boy to the Sheriff. He's in clear need of psychiatric treatment."

"I'm done with you giving me orders. I'm not your fucking puppet anymore," Jackson growls at him. "I'm with Derek now."

"I should have expected that, I suppose."

Stiles knows Jackson won't move but he still flinches violently and steps back.

"Fuck off, Gerard."

Lydia instantly releases him from the bear-hug she had cocooned him in, probably to save her from falling on her butt. She rounds around him and positions herself between him and the others.

"I suggest you leave, Mr Argent," Lydia tells him coldly. "Stiles is the son of the Sheriff, after all. I'm sure by now someone has already called the police."

Jackson has his hands wrapped in Gerard's shirt and has him pulled right up into his face. "You're not going anywhere near him."

"Surprising," Gerard laughs, seemingly genuinely amused.

Jackson growls again, it's not overly obvious, but it's clear to Stiles and Lydia that he's having a little trouble controlling the wolf. There's another ripple through his shoulders and Stiles swears he can see his spine shift under his skin.

"Jackson!" Lydia snaps at him. "Cool it."

"It's okay…" Stiles tries to reassure him, although his heart rate is probably not helping him rein in his wolfyness.

Surprisingly, it's Allison who manages to break up the little set-to, either because there was a little bit of humanity left that wanted to save Jackson from outing himself to the general public and prevent a little blood shed on the way, or because she wanted to leave before the police made a probable appearance. He hoped it wasn't to save Gerard from Jackson's clutches.

"We should leave, Gerard," she says, pulling him away.

He lets her pull him further away, all the while smiling dangerously, first at Jackson and then at Stiles. He side-steps around Allison and walks out of the restaurant, having the nerve to say "Good evening all," to the shocked people around them.

"You don't have to go with him," Stiles tells her, averting his eyes.

"I know," she says before moving to follow Gerard out.

"Allison," Stiles calls. She stops but doesn't look back. Stiles takes a breath, unsure how to word it. "You should ask your dad about your mom too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks over her shoulder.

"Just that…" Stiles pauses and then shrugs. "I think you've got Derek wrong."

She doesn't respond to his statement. He sees her flex her hands into fists before she releases them and marches out of the restaurant.

As soon as they're alone Lydia turns suddenly and drags Stiles back into bone-crushing hug. She follows him as his legs give out and he sinks to the floor.

"It's okay," she murmurs at him.

"It's really not," Stiles mumbles back. He's halfway between hysterical laughter and sobbing. He can already feel the wetness to his cheeks.

"Stilinski?" Jackson asks. There's a hesitation to his voice. Stiles glances up, glad to see that Jackson's looking relatively normal. "You okay?"

"No," Stiles croaks and then laughs again. A sob loosens from its hold.

"Of course he's fucking not," Lydia shoots him a disgruntled look. "What a stupid thing to ask."

"Stay with him Lydia," Jackson says, ignoring her.

"What?" Lydia asks. Stiles is suddenly feeling exhausted. The adrenalin has completely gone. He blearily looks up, from where Lydia has his face mashed into her shoulder, to see Jackson heading towards the exit. He feels boneless now. Pliable. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Just stay with him," the retreating figure barks at her.

"Fuck," Lydia hisses above him and he wants to 'shh' her because he doesn't like it when she swears. It' really unbecoming from Lydia Martin's mouth. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Don't," Stiles murmurs up at her. He feels drunk on exhaustion and the truth.

"Don't what?" she asks him.

"Just don't."

"Well okay then," she hums over him. "I won't."

"Good."

The guy from before, son-of-the- manager-who-he-vaguely-recognises, is back again. He looks both apologetic and horrified.

"I'm sorry," he's apologising and Stiles hasn't a clue for what.

Oh, here comes the pity.

"My dad called the cops."

Right, the cops. Yeah, Lydia mentioned something about that earlier. The police. The Sheriff. His dad.

"Good," Lydia mutters darkly.

"No," stiles mumbles, suddenly reawakened. He struggles against Lydia but she grabs him by both arms and shakes him a little. Yeah, he's still exhausted and pliable, and ends up, alarmingly, being shaken like a rag doll. Lydia's eyes widen at his sudden boneless-ness and stops shaking him.

"Leave," she tells the guy with no name. He takes one look at her face and then bolts back into the crowd that's gathered. Lydia looks at him, curling her own legs under herself so she's kneeling in front of him. "You don't have to tell him everything," she speaks quietly, hushed between them, knowing only wolfy-ears would pick it up. "But you have to tell him this, Stiles. He's you dad and Gerard's still out there. What if he turns up at the school as though nothing has happened? He was the principal, for Christ sake. Also I think there's enough witnesses here… well, he's going to hear it from someone else, anyway."

Stiles nods his head and clears his throat.

"I know," he agrees, feeling the tremors still within him. "I just don't know how."

Lydia looks around the growing crowd.

"Stiles," she says. She sounds a little dejected as she tightens her hold. "I think you already have."

* * *

John Stilinski had just started looking through a report – the official incident report on Matt Daehler and the events at the station and the findings that had followed on from the investigation which he would have to sign off on – when they had a report of a disturbance at a local store in town. A couple of officers had gone to investigate and due to the fact they were still light in numbers, he'd agreed to stay on a bit. He'd hoped that they would be done and dusted within the hour, two at the latest, so he could head home. Stiles had been on his own for too long and that surely meant trouble. Unless of course he had actually done what he had requested and arranged to meet up with Scott. Lately that wasn't really much of a reassurance either.

He was barely even a quarter of the way though the report when one of his deputies appears sheepishly in the room. He recognises a form in his hand as a fresh report.

"What is it now?"

"We just got a call. There's an incident at Chums. Some sort of altercation."

"Chums?" John repeats. He knows it well. It's the only Chinese restaurant Beacon Hills had to offer. He used to frequent it regularly with wife until she was too ill to go out. They used to laugh at the name.

"_Chums? What type of Chinese name is that?" _

"_It's not," she laughed, twirling her chopsticks in the air. "It's the sound people make when they eat and it's delicoooouuus. You know 'chum chum chum'. _

"_Okay," John grinned, sticking a wonton shrimp parcel in his mouth. "Now I know you've been listening to Stiles again. This is his theory, right?" _

"_You got me," Sarah grinned back, raising her hands in the air. _

"_It's ridiculous." _

"_I don't know," Sarah smiled at him, leaning across the table and planting a greasy kiss on his lips. "It's the sound you make." _

He'd taken Stiles a few times after Sarah had passed away too, but they, unfortunately, hadn't been many times in the last few years, and none at all that he could recall within the last year.

"That's just down the road from the store," John says, raising his eyebrows. He didn't need to know a pattern to realise two 'disturbances' within such a short distance were related to each other.

"Yeah. Frank's gone down there," Johnson tells him.

John nods and looks down to continue proof-reading the file, only Johnson stays where he is, report clutched to his hand, twitchy as hell.

"But?" John prompts.

"Well, we've had more than one call," Johnson says, pushing the report out in front of him. "And all of them are giving the same names. Whittemore, Argent and Stiles."

When John gets to town there's already two cruisers. One outside the 24/7 store. The store clerk looks harried and put out. He's waving down the street towards where the second Cruiser is, positioned just past 'Chums'.

When he enters he sees the manager's son – Li Jie – who John first met as a gangly teen when he started helping out at the restaurant. He now looks like a man, in his early twenties.

"Sheriff Stilinski," he greets politely. He still has a slight lisp he had never grown out of. John nods at him in return. "They're though the back."

He nods his thanks and rounds the partition of the wall that separates the main restaurant from the more private area_. The love shack_ Sarah had called it once.

There's no sign of Whittemore or Argent but the Martin girl is there. She's sat close to his son, arm around his shoulders. Even from here he can that he's violently trembling. Someone's thrown a shock blanket over him.

Frank Gilmore is there, bent down and talking quietly up at Stiles, one hand on his arm. Frank was one his oldest friend's on the force and from a neighboring county. He'd agreed to be transferred, on a temporary basis until John managed to recruit new officers. Because of their connection, Stiles actually knew Frank personally, and for that John was glad because his kid looks a total mess right now.

He sees Lydia nod at Frank who looks up at him. He holds his hand up, silently telling him to wait, before whispering something at Stiles. Stiles nods and buries his face into his hands.

"Hey, John," Frank greets him with a sympathetic smile.

"What have we got?" John ignores the greeting. It's clear something has happened to his kid. He just needs to know the who and the what so he knew who he had to hurt.

"We've got an APB out on Gerard Argent."

"Gerard? I thought he was missing," John says, surprised. He'd been expecting Chris or some other new Argent fresh on the scene.

"Apparently not anymore," Frank says. He takes him by the arm. "Look, lets go outside for me to give you the low down. Stiles doesn't need to see your reaction."

John raises his eyebrows, pulling his arm out his grasp. He moves back past the partition but doesn't leave. "Here will do."

"John, you gotta keep your cool," Frank tells him. His face is flushed, obviously angered by what he's heard.

"Just tell me," John demands. He's more than worried now, he's absolutely petrified.

"Stiles made allegations against Gerard Argent."

Before John can even ask what type Frank is already speaking. "Sexual assault, attempted rape."

He feels like the floor disappears from under his feet, the sounds become so much louder, the whole goddam room so much bigger.

"John?" Frank asks him, hand on his arm again. "Hey, maybe you should sit down."

"When?" John croaks at him, shaking the arm off again.

"The night of the Lacrosse game."

The night the Whittemore kid died and then had an immaculate recovery, the night Stiles disappeared off the field, the night his kid turned up bloodied and bruised in his bedroom and told him the other team had beaten him up. He should have pushed him. He should have pushed at the truth.

He pushed away from Frank and paced burying his face in his hands. That night, when Stiles had nearly crumbled in arms when he'd hugged him, and weak and vulnerable in bed, he'd vowed to pistol whip every little shit who'd laid their hands on his boy. Now all he wanted to do was grab his service weapon and put a bullet right through the old man's gut.

"John," Frank states calmly. "Now is not the time to lose it. Get your shit together and get back in that room. I've already got officer's heading towards the Argent's now. I already said we have an APB out on him. You are not doing anything apart from being a dad right now. Understand me?"

John paces a little further, rubs at his face a little, and takes a huge breath.

Stiles needs him right now.

"Okay," John says.

Rather than moving out of the way and letting him pass Frank asks "Okay?" and straightens his uniform for him.

"Okay," John repeats again after another deep breath.

"Good," Frank nods and moves out of the way. "Go see your kid."

When John gets back Stiles and Lydia are still sat together. His son has his head resting on Lydia's shoulder, eyes shut. Lydia nudges Stiles when she spots him approaching.

"Hmm?" Stiles asks blearily, clearly exhausted. It's obvious from the ruddy cheeks and puffy eyes that he's been crying.

"Stiles?" John says in response, bending in front of him, resting on his haunches.

Stiles freezes but his eyes immediately fill with tears.

"Oh, kiddo," John breathes, unsure how to make him feel better.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Stiles murmurs repeatedly, launching himself at him. He has a little trouble balancing both their weights, but the table, with its ridged edge digging painfully into his back, helps. Stiles isn't a little kid anymore, he's lost the puppy fat around his face, his cheekbones more defined. He wonders when he had missed the last growth spurt because all of the sudden Stiles seemed to have grown. The hair, now grown out, also seemed to have given him height, but it also made him look younger, more vulnerable. Despite the growth, he still managed to fold Stiles against him. "I'm sorry, daddy."

How did he miss this?

"No, Stiles," John says, rocking him against him. "You've got nothing to be sorry about."

* * *

It's clear the kid is exhausted.

His head is slumped on John's shoulder, where he has his arm wrapped around Stiles' own shoulders, and moves both restlessly and listlessly against him.

After hearing the details from his hesitant son, which he had to coax gently, prying the details bit by bit, he had wrapped him up and cocooned him in his arms. He had managed to sit there and murmur all the right words when all he could see was red.

His rage

Gerard's blood

Stiles had freaked when asked if he thought he could say everything he had told him, and Frank, in an official statement.

"I can't, Dad… oh god, I can't," Stiles panics. He shook his head, eyes wide with fear. "Don't make me. Not tonight."

"Okay, okay," John breathes, pulling Stiles close against him and squeezing him tightly. "Not tonight. Just take it easy, kid. No one's making you do anything."

Stiles nods shakily against him and John bites at his own lip when he hears him whimper quietly into his shoulder.

It's agreed all round, albeit reluctantly by Stiles, that Stiles would give his statement the next day. It wasn't like they had the need for forensic examination or the clothes that he was wearing. Stiles was also, in his paternal Stiles expertise, far too agitated to be dragged to the station.

After his freak-out (and, yes, he hated to admit it, but by Stiles panic attack standards, it could have been a lot worse) that resulted in a disturbing period of hyperventilating and left him vomiting in the restroom, John made an executive decision to take him home.

"Stiles?" he asks, jostling him gently. He looks down at the crown of his head and feels another swell of emotion, picturing a thirteen month old tottering on unsteady feet and falling abruptly on to his backside – a pause of hesitation and then, as expected, the tears to come. And then he was there, picking him up, dusting him off, holding him tightly and planting soft, reassuring kisses to the top of his head. The tears would instantly dry and Stiles would gurgle his happiness. "Hey, kiddo."

"Hmm…" Stiles hums back.

"Time to go, kid," he murmurs down to him, jostling him again. "It's getting late."

Stiles mutters something unintelligible and appears reluctant to move. After a few moments he lifts his head and rubs at his eyes.

John spots the Martin girl, still there, hovering by one of his deputies.

"Are you all done?" John asks.

"Yeah," his deputy says, flipping his notebook closed and gesturing to where the bar was. "I've just got the owner to talk to. Frank's already spoken to the son."

John nods and then turns his attention back to the red-head.

"It's Miss Martin, isn't it?" he asks.

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself.

"You came with Jackson Whittemore?"

She nods her head, a wave of uncomfortableness coming from her.

"Right," John says, nodding, remembering there was no sign of Whittemore when he had arrived. "I didn't see him."

"Yeah," she confirms and then shrugs. "I guess he was a little overwhelmed. He took off. I think he was a little surprised that Scott didn't know. Maybe he's gone to talk to him?"

He studies her and thinks that she appears too calm and controlled with her statements and reasoning, leaving him to only suspect there was a possibility that she was lying. The sudden look both Stiles and Lydia exchange only makes the suspicion stronger and then Stiles bursts into a small guffaw of giggles.

"Stiles?" she asks, a flash of concern on her face. She hesitates a second before taking a step forward.

"Inappropriate laughter," Stiles manages to gasp and then waves her off. John catches the fresh glistening to his eyes. Only a few seconds later Stiles face loses the cracked-up amusement and smooth's out into a flat and detached stare. "I'm fine."

"I've got to get him home," he tells her, a little perturbed at the sudden and impulsive labiality in Stiles' behaviour. He tugs at his arm and Stiles raises easily, compliant and docile. "We'll give you a ride."

She shakes her head.

"It's fine. I called my mom. She'll be here any minute."

"Good. That's good," John says. He pulls Stiles closer and wraps his arm around his shoulder again. Stiles doesn't protest, in fact he moves closer and practically melts into his side.

Lydia reaches out as they pass to touch Stiles' hand and John doesn't miss how Stiles pulls away. It's a far cry from how he had found them, with an openly distressed Stiles, wrapped in her embrace. He puts it down to a mixture of the fact she had been privy to his melt-down and the fact he was still obviously hung up on her.

"I'm fine," Stiles repeats again, looking away. His voice cracks and sounds forced through straining it out. "You should go and find Jackson."

There's a flash of hurt across her face before she nods and turns away to gather her purse.

"Miss Martin," John says, manhandling Stiles around and herding him under his other arm instead, so that he could face her without an indifferent Stiles between them. She pauses and turns back, raising an eyebrow. "Thank you for looking after him."

Her face softens and she nods. She's gone seconds later in the midst of Mrs Martin calling her name and demanding to know why she was being disturbed in the middle of the night to come and pick her daughter up.

"I guess everyone's going to know now," Stiles grumbles unhappily when mother and daughter finally leave.

"C'mon," John says, ignoring Stiles remark. He was probably right, but currently his main concern was dealing with the here and now and the obvious TLC his son needed. They'll deal with the rest of the consequences later. He tucks Stiles further against him. "Let's go home."

Stiles nods and somehow manages to burrow further into his side. He wipes a hand over a wary face and lets John lead him out to the cruiser.

He's out like a light not even minutes later.

* * *

Jackson storms into the loft in a burst of anger. He's not surprised to see Scott there, in some type of heated discussion with Derek – in fact, that's all they seemed to be doing lately. Isaac's there too, draped over a couch, long legs dangling over the sides, rolling his eyes and seemingly bored with the whole thing. Derek's uncle is also present. He's not paying any of them attention, instead staring at the door as though he was waiting for Jackson to fly through it. Jackson spares him a disgruntled look, remembering the last time he'd had a close acquaintance with him, claws embedded in his back.

"Oh, good," he mutters sarcastically, "You're all here."

He must have wolfed out a bit because Scott immediately jumps, eyes flashing, fangs protruding and claws extending. He looks around at the others and upon seeing their 'non'-reaction, withdraws the claws and shrugs sheepishly.

"What are you doing here?" Derek asks him, folding his arms across his chest.

"It's a pack, right?"

Isaac snorts loudly from the couch. Jackson rolls his eyes and Derek flashes red ones at his beta.

"Sorry," Isaac says, trying to stifle another giggle and waving a dismissive hand at Jackson. "But that? Was just hysterical. You?" he huffs out, a little breathlessly, face twisting into a mocking grin. "Yeah, right."

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" Derek repeats with a slow emphasis on each word, turning his full attention back to him.

"Did you know?" Jackson demands.

"I wouldn't have asked if I did," Derek growls impatiently at him, a look of confusion on his face.

"Well," Peter drawls from the stairs he's sitting on and waves a hand airily between them. "He smells of anger and tears," he sniffs lightly and shrugs, "hmm… not his own I might add. I hazard a guess, your beta is a tad upset because of it."

"I'm not his beta," Jackson growls at him.

"Is it Lydia?" Scott asks, worriedly, with a frown. He wonders when Scott started worrying about her – it wasn't like they're were close – but then he figures as Stiles best friend, who Jackson knew had harboured an unrequited crush on her, it was his duty to keep her alive.

"Seriously?" Jackson asks, in disbelief

"Jackson," Derek barks at him.

"What?" Jackson looks around at them with a shake of his head. He actually feels bad for Stiles – he'd been through something terrible and not one of the people he was supposed to be close to had noticed. Or if they did, they'd chosen to be quiet about it and watched him slowly self-destruct instead, which seemed just as bad, if not worse. "You don't know? About Stilinski?"

"Stiles?" Scott suddenly demands, paling. He goes to move forward but Derek stalls him, planting a hand on his arm and keeping him in place. "Is he okay? Has something happened?"

"Has something happened?" Jackson raises his eyebrows and laughs. "You could say that. Is he okay? Not so much. You're right about the tears. He actually cried a lot. I had to leave him with Lydia," he shrugs and watches everyone, including Peter and Derek, show a little concern. Quite rightly, Scott was the most distressed. "I should think the cops and the Sheriff are there by now."

Derek and Peter exchange worried looks, realising whatever trouble Stiles had got into, it was bad enough to involve the police.

"Oh, good," Scott breathes out, relief flashing across his face. Isaac moves from the couch to Scott who looks up at him in explanation. "That means the Sheriff is alive."

Isaac nods in understanding.

"What happened to Stiles," Derek demands again, now obviously frustrated at not knowing and Jackson takes a few seconds to relish the control, a sick fascination deep within, until he reminds himself why he came here in the first place.

"You know, I'm seriously surprised you guys didn't know," Jackson repeats.

"Jackson," Derek barks at him, resolve finally snapping. Suddenly he lurches forward and grabs at him at the edges of his jacket.

"I mean, I had an excuse on the account of being _dead_, you know," Jackson snaps back. He doesn't flinch or try and pull away and stares the alpha down. "But you guys? I thought you could smell danger, sniff the hurt out, know when one your own was down and out. But instead he was in a basement, getting the shit kicked out of him."

"What are you talking about?" Derek growls at him. He even has the nerve to glower right into his face. Jackson didn't come back as a typical werewolf that answered to his alpha. He came back a bit wrong, Stiles had once said, but all Jackson knew was the only person he answered to was himself (and sometimes he's parents). Although, reluctantly, he had had to seek out Derek's help in the first stages of controlling his shift after Lydia had insisted.

"Argent threw your token human into his basement and beat the hell out of him," Jackson repeats, slower for them to digest. He hadn't even got to the main reveal yet.

"Don't call him that," Scott bites at him. Isaac has to physically push him back.

"Seriously? That's what you got from that?"

"It is rather derogatory," Peter announces from his perch.

"Peter!" Derek mutters in exasperation. Peter just raises his shoulder in an innocent '_what_?' shrug. Derek's eyes move back and forth, studying him further, face frowning. "What aren't you telling us?"

"That night on the Lacrosse field," Jackson says. He can feel the heat from Derek on his skin. "Gerard Argent took Stiles and threw him in the basement. Boyd and Erica were there too."

Derek releases him suddenly and backs off as though he had burned him.

"No way," Isaac murmurs, shaking his head. "Stiles would have told us."

"Don't fucking blame Stilinski," Jackson spits at them. "He's had his own shit to deal with. Besides, Allison's dad let them go."

"What shit?" Scott asks quietly. He actually looks scared now because deep down he knows there's more, maybe he even knew that something felt wrong all through these last few months. "What else happened?"

"Argent didn't just best him up," Jackson concedes, finally getting to the point.

There's an audible gasp in the room, Isaac, Jackson thinks by the look on his face. Derek's lost the redness to his eyes and actually looks pale, Scott is staring in horror and Peter, well… his face was unreadable by Jackson's standards.

"Stiles was raped?" Isaac asks, in clarification, probably hoping for some other, insane, and less traumatising event.

"No," Jackson shakes his head, "From what Stilinski said it was attempted rape. Allison's dad walked in on them and stopped it from happening."

"Oh my god," Scott mutters shakily, hands clenching tightly into fists. He glares at Jackson and juts his chin. "Tell me you're fucking shitting me."

"I'm not."

He knows Scott can hear his heartbeat. He knows he's telling the truth.

"Oh god, no. Shit no," Scott mumbles in a daze, actually stumbling. Isaac gathers him in his arms and shoves him into the couch. "No, no, no. This can't be happening."

"Gerard's back too."

Both Derek and Peter snap their attention back to him.

"How the hell do you know that?" Derek breathes out. He makes no attempt to grab him again or throw him into the nearest hard surface. "How the hell do you know any of this?"

"Because I saw him with my own eyes," Jackson tells him earnestly. "Stilinski bumped into him and Allison, who seriously has some loyalty problems, in the grocery store. He freaked out and was practically chased into the restaurant that me and Lydia were at. He told me everything. When Allison and Argent turned up… well there was a bit of a public argument. You know, your girlfriend has some serious issues, McCall."

"She's not my girlfriend," Scott mutters into his hand. Isaac sits near him, hand hovering nervously, but never touching.

"Yeah, well maybe that's a good thing, because she said some seriously poisonous shit to him."

"I didn't know," Scott says miserably. He looks devastated.

"None of you did," Jackson reminds him.

"In our defence," Peter says, voice smooth and enunciated – he's moved now so that he's standing next to the stairs, one arm draped lazily over the bannister. "We were saving your life at the time."

Jackson rolls his eyes.

"And after?" Jackson asks him. "You didn't sense something? Smell Argent on him? Realise something wasn't right? I thought you guys were a pack?"

"Did you?" Peter asks him. "After?"

"That's different," Jackson starts to protest. "You know I…"

"Yes, I suppose it is…" Peter cuts him off and smiles. "I mean you and Stiles hardly like each other. In fact, he detests you, despite the fact that he tried to help you, to stop you from hurting all those people. Including your friend. Daniel, wasn't it?"

Jackson's not stupid. He knows Peter's trying to get inside his head with some twisted reverse psychology.

"And yet, it was you he spilled his vulnerabilities to," he continues, "an impotent wolf, with no sense of smell, no pack mentality, and is only just learning the basic concepts of the human heart."

He can't help the growl that comes out of him and he hates how Peter's eyes light up at his response.

"A little transference, I wonder," a voice speaks up from behind, causing Jackson to jump. Peter was right about the lack of being able to scent things or people out. That trick truly jumped ship. Since Peter and Derek double skewered the kanima out of him, his wolf had been a little bit defunct. Derek's go-to-guy, Deaton, had said that his wolf skills might take time to develop or not show at all.

"Ah, Miss Martin," Peter announces with a small curtsey. "Nice of you to join us."

Lydia immediately moves to Jackson's side. She glances around the room and gives everyone a wary look but reserves a scowl for Peter.

"How is he?" Jackson asks, letting Lydia move her petite frame under his arm.

"He kind of shut down again," she says with a shake of the head. "His dad took him home."

Scott abruptly lurches from the couch, startling Isaac.

"I've got to go."

"I got the impression the Sheriff wanted to be alone with him," Lydia starts to say. "I think Stiles just wanted to be with him too. When his dad got there he didn't seem to even realise I was still there."

Scott shakes his head and starts pacing the length of the loft.

"I'll go see Stiles when Gerard is dead."

"What?" Lydia startles. She tries to grab at his arm as he passes her. "Scott, don't do anything stupid."

She turns and extricates herself out from under Jackson's arm and glares at Derek. "Do something. He'll just get himself killed," she protests. "How the hell is that going to help Stiles?"

"Scott," Derek barks at him, shoving past them and ignoring the muted objection Jackson mumbles. "You're not going after him."

Scott whirls around at him, standing in the doorway to the loft.

"You know, Jackson's right about one thing," Scott hisses. "This is not a pack and you were never my alpha."

He doesn't wait for a response and disappears around the door.

"Damn-it," Derek mutters staring out of the door. "Isaac," he calls over his shoulder. "Go after him."

Isaac nods, a look of intense concern on his face, and rushes after him straight away. Jackson got the impression he wasn't going after him because his alpha had told him to. He was going because Scott was his friend.

* * *

Stiles shuffles in after him as he potters around in the kitchen. It's late – beyond late – and they should probably both be in bed by now.

John's heating food instead.

Li Jie had stopped them on their way out of the restaurant and waved a bag of food at him saying he figured Stiles probably never had the chance to eat. It was a total guess but he figures the kid is just seeing what John's been ignoring for months; Stiles has lost weight, and too much of it. John's not stupid. He knows his son didn't finish his meal after he left for work and as far as he knew he hadn't had much of an appetite before that either. He could only guess when he'd last had a full meal. It was a bit of a kick to the gut to know a fleeting acquaintance can see it too.

"I'm just gonna go to bed, dad," Stiles tells him.

"In a bit," John says, leaning against the kitchen counter. He studies his son, standing in the middle of the room, looking a bit lost. The kid had become quieter in the cruiser, listlessly leaning against the window, and by time they'd got back he'd seemed to have adopted a new resolve, distant and shying away from contact. "You're going to eat first."

"I don't think I can," Stiles protests, making a face. "Have you forgotten that I just lost my lunch?"

"Right," he scoffs and gives Stiles a knowing look. He raises an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure there was no lunch to lose."

"I still puked."

"I'm not going to bed to find that you have expired in your sleep," John tells him firmly. He pulls a chair out from the table, pointing at it. "Sit."

"You're bossy," Stiles huffs at him, sinking into the seat and staring at a steaming bowl with a detached look.

"I'm your dad. I get to be," He pushes the bowl towards him. "Just try the soup. If it's too much we'll try again tomorrow."

Stiles nods and takes the spoon from him. He continues to stare at it like it's the biggest challenge he's ever faced.

"Look, I know you're doing your best," John says, placing a soft hand against the back of his head. Stiles doesn't flinch so he keeps it there. "But if you keep this up I'll have no choice to take you to the doctor. Just try the soup, kid."

"No doctors," Stiles confirms and pulls the bowl closer.

John takes the seat nearest him, one arm resting across the table, as he watches his slow progress. He manages most of the bowl and nearly a full slice of bread. There's even a bit of color back to his face.

He waits a further twenty minutes, for fear of a reappearance of his newly digested food before prompting his wilting son to bed.

"Go on up," John tells him, encouraging him up from the table. "I'll check on you in a minute."

Stiles nods. He doesn't even object to the concept of being coddled. He's basically told him he's going to tuck him in.

John spends the next ten minutes putting everything away, sticking the remainder of the food in the fridge, and washing the few pieces of cutlery and utensils used.

When he gets upstairs he finds Stiles bed empty. The bathroom door is open and the light is off so he knows he's not in there either. He has a few seconds of alarm and panic until he hears a soft noise, almost like a small sob, come from his own room.

When he gets there he stays in the door silently for a few moments watching him.

Stiles is tucked up under the covers – the side his mother used to take – curled up and facing the wall. When he spots John looking at him he raises his head, wiping angrily at his face as fresh tears make their way down his cheeks. His face is blotchy again, his eyes puffier then they were before.

"I'm sorry," Stiles croaks. He pushes the sheets off himself slightly and John can see he's wearing the same shirt from that night. The two-big Adidas shirt that engulfed his small frame. It's one of his old ones and he can't recall when or how Stiles retrieved it, but he always seemed to be drawn to it when he felt bad or had an obvious injury. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," John tells him, kicking off his shoes and joining his son on the bed. Stiles immediately rolls over and buries himself against him again. John swings his arm around him and pulls him closer.

"I just didn't know how to tell you," Stiles mumbles against him. "About any of it."

John considers how Stiles words it. He's implying there's more. He's not stupid. None of it started on that night. This was just one part of a bigger problem. Stiles had been lying, had become distant, had withdrawn from an otherwise healthy father/son relationship months before Argent had even been on the scene. Maybe if he'd put a stop to it earlier and called his son on the bullshit he was giving him then he might have been able to avoid the situation they were in now.

"I just don't know what to do," Stiles cracks, shaking his head. "I don't know how to…"

"It's okay," he insists, chest restricting. He feels the residue of small tremors under his hand, can feel it pressed against his side. There's an occasional further violent flutter in between breaths as Stiles tries to control the instinctive reaction to cry. "I've got you now."

They lay like this for what seems like ages, drifting into a sleep, leaving him with the troubling thought that the closest they have been in ages was when Stiles was falling apart.

* * *

Stiles awakes with a start, momentarily disorientated until he realises that this was his dad's room and the man sleeping beside him was in fact his dad. He wonders what awoke him, he wasn't having any dreams or having any particularly disturbing nightmares, until he hears a soft thud from his room.

Stiles clenches the sheets around him. Nobody had entered his room through his window for months now. Realistically he knew it probably wasn't Gerard but his heart still jumped.

He glances at his dad to see that the noise hadn't disturbed him. He's lying, head tipped back, mouth open, softly snoring. His dad's arm is still around him, trapped under Stiles shoulders. It doesn't look comfortable and Stiles winces.

He manages to wrangle himself out from under the arm and rearrange his dad so that his arm wasn't at an angle and he was at least half covered by the sheets.

He hesitates by his door and knows he should scream for his dad – he probably would have done this time last year – but he knows, deep down, that whoever is on the other side is more friend than foe. Besides his dad needs to sleep.

"I can hear you breathing," Derek says from the other side of the door.

Stiles sighs a breath of relief and pushes the door open before quietly closing it after him. He walks past, completely ignoring him. Derek's pressed up against the wall staring intently.

"You need to work on the stealth, dude," he says, suddenly immensely interested in the scattered items on his desk. "I heard you from my dad's room."

"Stiles…" Derek attempts, trying to draw his attention.

"You're lucky my dad didn't hear," Stiles continues, picking random objects up and then putting them back down. "I think he really wants to shoot someone. I'm pretty sure he went to bed with his gun."

"Stiles…"

"Which is, you know really dangerous, and strangely erotic," Stiles says, staring at a newly rediscovered 'Where's Waldo' key-ring, before shuddering. "That came out wrong."

"Stiles," Derek repeats again, this time grabbing him by the arms. Stiles shudders, releasing the key-ring, with reflexive fingers. "Is it true?"

Derek lets go of Stiles and watches him as he backs away slightly.

Stiles nods, biting his lip, before sitting heavily on to the edge of his bed.

"Jackson?" Stiles asks.

Derek nods, staying where he is.

Stiles didn't know how to react to that. Jackson had never been particularly close to the others, only really spending time with them – Derek – when his wolf made him, but on the other hand, who else would Jackson have a need to tell. Maybe there was some packness in him, after all.

"Where's Scott?" he asks, suddenly hurt that the first person to make an appearance was one of his least favourite, with only Peter being the first.

"Out looking for Gerard."

"What?" Stiles jumps. God no, the idiot's going to get himself killed. "Shit, Derek. We need to find him."

"Relax," Derek says impatiently, "I sent Isaac after him."

"Right, that makes me feel so much better," he mutters. "Send the abuse victim to stop him from going after an abuser."

"You'd be surprised at how much control Isaac has. I'm not worried about them," his eyes flash a little angrily and Stiles swallows down another urge to vomit. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, not knowing what else to say. He's said it so much over the last few hours he's actually started to feel nauseas hearing it.

"For what?" Derek looks genuinely confused.

"Everything," Stiles says miserably.

"You should have told me," Derek states. He's not moved at all.

"I know," Stiles agrees, eyes stinging. He wipes frustratingly at them, not wanting to cry in front of Derek, feeling ashamed of himself. He feels his throat close up on him. "It's all my fault."

Derek obviously isn't good around other people's tears, he looks uncomfortable as hell, but he ends up sitting on the bed all the same.

"Don't cry. It doesn't smell right."

It's such a ridiculous thing to say, in the current situation, that it causes Stiles to huff out a startled laugh.

"I can't help it," Stiles flatly says before wiping his face with his shirt. "It's my fault. All of it. Boyd's missing. Erica is dead."

Derek turns shocked eyes at him.

"You think that's why I came?"

"Isn't it?"

"I came here because of what happened to you, Stiles," Derek says, shaking his head. "I came because we should have stopped it, we should have been there… I should have helped you."

"I don't need help," Stiles says. He looks at Derek with a frown. "You're supposed to hate me. Erica is dead because of me."

"No, she's not," Derek insists, actually grasping his shoulder. Stiles jumps but Derek doesn't pull away this time. Stiles stares at it fixedly. "They were already leaving. I couldn't change their mind. Erica's dead because of the alpha pack. Her fate was already decided when she chose to leave."

Stiles looks at Derek with uncertainty

"Chris let them go, right?"

"Erica said he wasn't lying. That she could hear his heartbeat," Stiles tells him before licking his lips nervously. "She could have been lying to me."

"She wouldn't have," Derek disagrees.

"But If I told you…" he insists. "Then you might have had an opportunity to change their minds. Don't give me that look Derek, you might. You could have done your alpha thing."

Derek shakes his head again.

"It doesn't work like that," Derek tells him. "Even an alpha can't make betas stay if they close not to."

Stiles doesn't say anything and just considers what Derek is implying.

"I'm a little pissed at them, actually," Derek admits quietly. Stiles turns sharp eyes back. "They could have come and checked on you. They should have come and told me about you. Or Scott. At least someone."

Stiles grabs at the hand resting on his arm and tugs it aggressively, insistently, and growls at him. "Don't be angry at them. Erica told me to run, to get as far away as possible… she wanted me safe. I'm sure if Chris hadn't turned up she was going to fight her way out her restraints. Electrical ones, I might add."

Derek's eyes flash slightly at realising how his beta's had been treated.

Stiles releases his hold and continues to stare out across his room.

"Boyd's not missing anymore," Derek finally breaks the silence.

"You found him?" Stiles asks, voice all breathless.

"Yeah, I did," Derek nods

"Oh, thank god," Stiles whispers, crumpling in on himself and rocking with a relieved groan. He feels a hand rest on his back.

"I found my sister, too."

"Laura?" Stiles asks in confusion, sitting up abruptly. It's such a shock that he actually feels a little normal.

"No. Cora. My younger sister," Derek says quietly. "I thought she was dead."

"Oh my god… that's…" Stiles flounders for words. "I don't have anything apart from 'oh my god'."

"I wasn't going to say anything just yet, but I thought you needed to hear something good."

"I did," Stiles nods. And he does. To know that there's still light in their darkness. "Thanks. I'm sure she's nothing like you, so there's hope for her. Oh and I'm happy for you, obviously."

"I meant Boyd," Derek says with an amused frown.

"Oh," Stiles manages a small quirk of his lips. "Yeah, Boyd too. It's a relief."

They drift into a silence again until Stiles lifts his head with a quizzical frown.

"Derek?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are you still here?"

"I already said…"

"You should go," he says with a shrug. "They need you."

Derek stands to move away with no resistance. He watches him lift the window.

"No. Wait."

Derek turns at the request, looking confused.

"You just told me to leave," he accuses.

"I know," Stiles concedes with a huff. "You should go."

"I should," Derek agrees.

"Can you stay?" Stiles asks instead. He's exhausted but feels too wired for sleep. "Just for a bit? We could just sit and stare at each other. I know you're good at that."

Derek doesn't reply. Instead he sits exactly in the same place he sat the last time he'd spent more than a few minutes in his room, back when he was a fugitive from the law, and he used him as a bit of eye candy in exchange for Danny's computer wizardry.

Stiles ends up sitting cross-legged on his bed and thinks about that day.

Back when things were simpler.

Back when Derek was Miguel and Stiles was relatively unscathed.

* * *

Stiles doesn't remember falling asleep.

But here is, actually under the covers. Even his socks have gone.

By the fact that his door is now open, and Derek having a tendency to shy away from tactile touching, unless it involved bashing his head against steering wheels or throwing him into walls, he's pretty sure it must have been his dad.

There's a murmur of noises downstairs, the distant clatter of plates, and for a wild second he thinks Derek might have joined his dad for breakfast. But there's no raised voice or gunshots so he figures not.

When he gets down to the kitchen, all bleary eyed, body shuffling, he sees that Scott's mum is at the table with a hot mug of coffee.

His dad's leaning against the kitchen counter and spots him straight away, immediately abandoning his own coffee on the side, and moves closer. Stiles freezes, wondering if he was going in for some attack hug, which he doesn't want right now. He doesn't want to look vulnerable. Hell, he doesn't want to look like he needs one, but the sleep-filled face, baggy clothes and dishevelled hair, probably wasn't helping either.

"What's the time?" Stiles yawns instead, watching as his dad frowns at him and diverts to a stack of pancakes nonchalantly.

"Too early," his dad tells him through a mouthful of food. "You should be in bed."

Stiles glances at the wall behind him and actually sees that it's nearing 8:30 in the morning. His dad is right though. He feels he could sleep for another week.

"I'm not an invalid," Stiles grouses, ignoring him. Despite his statement he ends up groaning a little when he sinks into a chair. He smiles slightly at Melissa. "Hey, Mrs McCall."

"Oh, hon'…" is all she can say as she reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

Stiles stares at it and blinks surprised tears away. He really needs to get a hold of himself.

"I'm fine," he tells her. The look she gives him tells him she doesn't believe him.

"Look kid," his dad coughs near him. Stiles looks up to see his dad has drained his coffee and has an apologetic look across his face. "I've got to go out for a bit. Melissa's going to stay with you."

"I thought we didn't need to be at the station until this afternoon?" Stiles asks, surprised. He remembers Frank telling his dad to bring him in for his statement for 2pm that afternoon.

"I just need to do a few things first."

"You're going to the Argent's, aren't you?" he accuses, anger flaring, worry making his heart jump.

"What? No," his dad says, clearly lying.

"Don't do anything stupid," Stiles begs, hands clenching around the table edge. He feels his breath quicken, recognising the panic rising. Melissa still has her hand clenched over his. "In fact, don't go. Stay."

"Hey, take it easy kid," his dad says. Stiles glances around and realises his dad is on his knees by his side. "Just breathe, okay?"

"I'm trying," he complains, gasping over the two words. "But you're freaking me out."

"I'm just going to talk to Chris. That's all."

"I can't lose you, dad. I need you," he hates how his voice shakes all over the place, how it unexpectedly pitches high.

"You're not losing me, Stiles," his dad says and he catches how he looks worriedly at Melissa. She's still clutching his hand as though she was never going to let him go ever again. "It's just a chat."

"Chris helped me. He saved me… I'm going to say that Erica and Boyd left with me. That I watched them get on a bus and leave," he hesitates and watches as his dad looks at him in confusion. "If you hurt him I'll never forgive you."

"Why would you lie?"

"It's the truth."

"Stiles, you already said that you left them there," he sees a familiar look in his dad's face. He can practically read the thought that it is attached. Here comes the lies again.

"No, I told you that. No one else heard," Stiles says flatly. "Not anyone who will be bothered, anyway."

"Why would you lie?"

"He _helped_ me," Stiles insists, anger flaring. He hate that suddenly they're at a conflict again, but it's all spilling out again. He's too close to revealing the truth. How the hell does he explain the real reason why Erica and Boyd were there in the first place, why Gerard felt the need to take him, without revealing everything. "It's not his fault who his dad is."

His dad clearly doesn't believe him but he at least seems to let Stiles drop the matter.

"I'm just going for a chat," he tells Stiles again, straightening from his hunch.

"Just talking. No maiming," Stiles reminds him when he realises he can't deter him. "In fact, why don't I come with you?"

He has no desires to see inside that particular house of horrors again.

"No," his dad tells him and nods to Scott's mom. "And Melissa's staying."

"I don't need a babysitter," Stiles mumbles.

"Argent is still out there," his dad reminds him and he inwardly shudders at the thought, not wanting his dad to realise how freaked he was about it. "I'd be happier knowing someone was here with you."

"And Scott's mom was your first choice?"

He doesn't miss the raised eyebrows Melissa gives him. Even his dad looks a little embarrassed.

"Uh… that came out wrong?" Stiles tries to amend, feeling a flush to his face, and a flail to the arms. She looks a little amused at his attempts to retreat, eyes crinkling at the familiarity of it. "You're fierce, Mrs McCall. Totally fierce."

And it was true. She was one of the fiercest people he knew. Just behind Lydia, naturally.

"So, what am I supposed to do when you're out defending my honor?" he asks his dad when he sees that he's almost ready to leave.

"You have a choice; have breakfast, take your Adderall, try not to drive Melissa crazy or you can go back to sleep," his dad says, swinging his jacket on. "Preferably both. You look like you need them."

Stiles contemplates this and makes grabby hands for the coffee pot which his dad easily plucks out of his reach.

"No coffee," his dad tells him.

"Hey," Stiles protests.

"No coffee," he tells Melissa who nods.

"I'm just gonna grab a cup as soon as he leaves," Stiles reminds her.

Melissa raises her eyebrows and takes the pot to the basin where she proceeds to pour the contents away.

"You do realise I am capable of making a fresh pot."

Melissa shrugs and nods at John as he starts to leave.

"Love you, kid," John mutters affectionately, planting a kiss on the top of his head. "I won't be long."

"Don't be," Stiles reminds him. And yeah… he still sounds as vulnerable as hell. "Dad?"

His dad stalls in the doorway and looks back.

"Love you too."

His dad smiles back, a little sadly, which wasn't really what he'd been going for. Their lives must be pretty messed up when you look sad when someone tells you that they love you.

His dad moves quickly back across the room and dives in for hug. Shit, he's really good at these sneak attacks.

"Stay out of trouble," his dad whispers into his ear.

"I'll try," Stiles says, with a shrug. "I haven't had much luck so far."

His dad grunts some type of agreement and ghosts a hand over his head. He stares at him for longer than is necessary, as though there was a chance he wasn't going to be there when he got back.

"Dad…?" he starts, suddenly worried that it might be him who he won't see again, grabbing at his arm.

"It's just a chat," his dad reminds him. "I promise."

Stiles nods and numbly watches him leave.

Melissa is by his side as soon as it's clear he's left.

"Stiles?"

She has her arms out in a ridiculous gesture, inviting him into an embrace.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Just humor me, okay?" she tells him.

He stands slowly and hesitates for a second before stepping into her arms.

She instantly envelopes him into a tight and _fierce_ hug. He freezes up and then thinks _oh fuck_ because she's the closest thing to a mom that he has right now and she smells motherly and familiar, and he suddenly finds himself planting his face in between her neck and shoulder, squeezing back. He's not full out crying but he knows his eyes are wet again. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

"It's okay," he mumbles into her shoulder.

"It's not," she says. He's still in her embrace and doesn't try and move out of it. "And I made it all worse by showing you a bunch of dead bodies. Sorry about that, by the way."

Stiles laughs, his breath lifting her hair, and shakes his head.

"That wasn't your fault," he finally says, pulling away. He uses the back of his hand to wipe away the wetness. "Have you heard from Scott?"

Melissa nods.

"He's still with Isaac."

"I'm worried about him," Stiles says, biting his lip. "Derek said he went to find Gerard."

"According to Isaac all he's doing is working out his frustration… he's a little antsy at the moment," she tells him and squeezes his arm. "He's going to come by when he feels less… murderous."

Stiles feels really worried now.

"Sorry, wrong choice of words," she reassures him. "I spoke to him as well. He's fine… or he will be. He'll be here by the time you get back from the station. Scott just needs some time to sort his emotions out. I know you guys. You'll be in a bad way and will end up making him feel better."

Stiles shrugs and plants himself back into his chair.

"Probably," Stiles sighs. "He needs looking after."

"Sometimes you do too," Melissa says, remaining by his side. "You're always trying to protect everyone else. Have you thought of telling your dad the rest?"

"I nearly did last night," Stiles nods. "But it's just…" his voice fades away and he waves his hand tiredly as though he was chasing it away.

"Too much for now?" Melissa asks and Stiles nods, wiping his eyes again.

She takes the chair next to him and takes his hand again.

"It must be exhausting," she observes, stroking a thumb over the back of his hand. "Having to pick out what to say."

"Totally," Stiles says tiredly.

They don't say much else.

He ends up eating at least one pancake, after Melissa tells him she knows how to put a tube feed in and wasn't afraid of doing so, before taking up residence in his bed again. He surprisingly does manage to sleep. It's disturbed, restless, stuttering with flashes of the Argent's house, that basement (he wakes once with the distinct feel of his face being pushed into carpet), Erica and Boyd and Gerard's leering face. Occasionally it's of his dad, appearing out of the darkness, the glow of a hallway light making him look some avenging angel.

And finally, the one that's keeping him awake now, hands clenched at his side, face staring intently at his ceiling; his dad shooting Chris dead and the sound of Allison's screams in his ears.

* * *

For the most part, John Stilinski is a calm and controlled man, a pillar of the community, the trusted Sheriff. But there were times when he was just all-out emotion. It's what dragged him down when Claudia died. The all-consuming grief that left him losing himself down an endless bottle of whiskey.

It's that feeling now, only instead of the depressing darkness that had engulfed him and left him falling on old habits, he's suffocated in anger. It's not something that can be washed away with booze. It's not something that can be ignored. Not when it's his son.

So he finds himself on a doorstep.

A picture of calmness.

Non-threatening.

He's sure there's some neighboring curtains twitching.

"Sheriff?"

"Chris," John quietly says back in greeting, trying to keep the bite out of his voice. "Mind if I come in?"

"Your deputies have been here for most of the night and morning," Chris says. His voice is reluctant and hesitant. Uninviting. "We've already given our statements."

John's already been informed of this. Allison and Chris had spent most of the early hours of the morning at the station. His deputies and the crime scene unit have been all over the house, including the basement. Chris was seriously misguided if he thought he could avoid him, the Sheriff, for the rest of their time in Beacon Hills.

"I'm not here as the Sheriff," John tells him, shaking his head. "I'm here as a Dad. I think I deserve some answers."

Chris, at first looks like he's going to object, and then nods his head and steps aside, allowing him to pass through.

John has his service weapon out as soon as the door is safely shut behind them, away from prying eyes, and has it pushed up under Chris' chin before the other man can react. He's not entirely sure how he thought the other man would react, but it becomes evident he'd expected something other than talking, because he simply allows himself to be pushed into the wall, jutting his chin up as John pushes the gun further in, hard against bone.

"Where the fuck is he?"

"Not here," Chris answers, voice thick in his ears. "I'm sure your deputies would have found him by now. We don't have any secret rooms, if that's what you're thinking."

"You mean apart from the torture chamber in the basement?" John spits at him.

"No chamber," Chris says with a shrug. He has the nerve to smile. "Just a basement."

"Don't fucking smile," John snaps furiously at him. He jabs at the junction of his chin and neck once more, feeling satisfied when Chris winces in pain. "You don't get do that. This is my son we're talking about."

"I'm sorry," Chris suddenly chokes as John suddenly moves the gun and presses it against his windpipe. "For what he did to Stiles."

"Where. Is. He?" He asks, pressing a little harder on each syllable. He uses his other free hand to press around his throat, just enough pressure to think he means harm, fingers pressing against his pulse point.

"I don't know," he chokes a little further. "I didn't even know he was back until Allison turned up and asked me if it was true."

John considers this for a second, feeling that there were no sudden jumps in his pulse, and as quick as he had the other man against the wall, he's pushing away and staring heatedly at him.

"What?" Chris croaks at him, rubbing at his newly released throat. "You're not putting a bullet in me?"

"I promised Stiles I wouldn't."

Chris looks a little surprised at that.

"My son seems to have some misguided loyalty to you and your daughter. He seems to think he needs to protect you," he pauses and looks around the foyer, registering a couple of pictures of Allison with her mother. One with Chris. They look like a normal family. Thankfully there are none of Gerard himself. He swallows down the sudden nausea that swirls in his throat. "He's planning on giving a statement that indicates that Reyes and Boyd were released with him."

"What makes you think they weren't?"

"I've heard two versions," John smiles thinly at him. "The truth and the one that's going in the official report."

"You're going to let him lie?"

"Stiles has been through a lot," John says and then shrugs. "And I'll be damned if I'll let him go down for perverting the course of justice."

Chris nods, rubbing at his throat, eyes drifting away as though he wanted nothing more than John to leave.

"Stiles isn't the only one who's lied for you, you know?" John reveals.

Chris leans against the wall he was so recently acquainted with, eyes crinkling in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"I had a call from one of my men," John says, casually. He keeps the gun pressed into his side, dipped into his waistband, for easy reach if Chris decided he did actually want to brawl the way through the conversation. "Asked me to come to the station to see a few things. CCTV, statements, that type of thing. Imagine my surprise when I find out Derek Hale has spontaneously decided to inform one of my deputies that he saw Reyes and Boyd _after_ they'd been released. That they turned up to say goodbye before flitting away. Found pastures new. So is it true?"

"How would I know what Hale does in his spare time," Chris answers, eyes now hardening.

"You know what I think?" John asks. His calmer now, more Sheriff than dad, but it's still only a hair breadth away, one wrong word, one little sneer, one look… "I think it's a lie. Why the hell would Hale come forward and protect Chris Argent from a shit-storm after his sister killed his family. I think that Derek and my son are lying for an entirely different reason, or at least for Stiles it's more than what happened that night…"

"Maybe you should start asking the right questions," Chris snaps at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe you should be asking Stiles what he knows about Derek and the Hales," he says with a shrug. A small tug of the lips and his mouth lifts into a twitchy smile. John's hand tenses against the gun against his side. "Maybe you should be asking why kids like Boyd and Reyes are hanging around Hale. Maybe you should be looking at your own kid instead."

"I have no idea what you're implying," John says, face hardening. He forgoes the gun again and chooses the fact of his words instead. "But as far as I'm aware your father is the only one who's ever laid his hands on my son."

Chris twitches against the wall again.

"Maybe you should go," he finally tells him.

"What about Allison?" John asks glancing at a picture of her again.

"She doesn't know where he is either," Chris immediately straightens. He pushes past John and stands further into the foyer, blocking the stairs as though he's a sudden threat. "She lost him as soon as she left the restaurant and then came here."

"Are you sure about that?" John asks, eyes moving to look up the stairs.

Chris shifts nervously and nods. "She's sleeping right now… it's been hard on her. I'd rather not disturb her."

John smiles again, feeling the familiar white hot anger again, and shrugs.

"She seemed pretty riled up," John notes, swallowing the urge to break Stiles promise. He feels a little sick too. It's one thing to want to harm another man. It's another thing entirely to think about it in regards to a teenage girl.

"Yeah… well, like I said. It was pretty tough going to hear that about your own grandfather," Chris says with a shrug.

"Is she a threat to my son?"

"What?" Chris blanches and shakes his head. "Why the hell would you think that? She's his friend."

"She chased my son across the street," John hisses at him, anger barely controlled. Chris opens and closes his mouth like a startled fish. "I saw the CCTV. Stiles was petrified."

Chris sags against the bannister, looking a little bit defeated.

"I'm sorry for that," he admits. He sounds less defensive. He waves a hand at the pictures he'd looked at earlier. "Allison hasn't been well… not since Victoria died. And my father is… poison. She knows the truth now."

"Okay," John says, unsure of what to say in the situation. He's not accepting it as an apology though, he's just acknowledging that he's heard him. "… In the meantime, you think you can keep her away from Stiles. At least until he wants to talk to her."

Chris nods and watches him as he moves to leave.

"Sheriff?"

He turns to find Chris standing more determinedly.

"I have people looking for him. I will find him. I promise you that."

John just nods in response before leaving the Argent's to deal with their own regrets. He sure had to face up to his own.

* * *

Stiles returns from the station with his dad shortly after two pm. He feels even more exhausted than he did the previous night, face pushed up against the window of his dad's cruiser, sunlight flashing in and out against closed eyelids. Occasionally he opens them, seeing the images flashing past the window, and looks wearily around him. His dad flashes worried looks at him and Stiles eyes settle on the steering wheel where his dad has his fingers wound tightly around it. Stiles doesn't know where else to look so he ends up staring down at the frayed ends of his sleeves.

"Scott's here," his dad announces when they finally arrive home.

Stiles looks up to see that Scott is indeed there.

He's brought the jeep too.

He's leant up against it, worriedly biting at his nails, and stiffens suddenly when his dad rolls to a stop.

His dad leaves the cruiser straight away, but Stiles stays in the passenger seat and watches as his dad approaches Scott and they have some muted conversation that results in his dad squeezing Scott's shoulder and entering the house. Stiles hesitates a second before leaving the cruiser.

"Hey," Scott says in greeting.

"You're here," Stiles breathes out unsteadily.

Of course he's here. Where else would he be? His mind tells him a million and one other better things he could be doing.

"Of course," Scott says, looking offended. "I would have been here earlier, but I…"

"I know-," Stiles starts to interject but is cut off with Scott suddenly throwing himself at him and launching into the biggest bear hug they'd ever had. It takes him by surprise and he has to rebalance both of them, but he ends up squeezing back, burying his face into Scott's neck. "Whoa… okay."

"God, Stiles…" Scott fiercely tells him. "I'm sorry. I should have known."

Stiles can't help but admit that he had been a little pissed that Scott hadn't. He truly believed that Scott would have known, _felt_, that he was in trouble. And when he had told Gerard that Scott knew his scent… yeah, it sounded ridiculous even to his own ears but he had _believed_ it at the time.

"It happened," Stiles says instead, face still buried into Scott's neck. "It's okay."

"No, it's not," Scott tells him rather decisively. "Even if I didn't know it was happening, I should have realised something after."

"Scott-," Stiles starts to object. He tries to push away but his attempts are futile against Scott's werewolfery octopus skills and he ends up being held even tighter.

"We're going to find him," Scott whispers against him. He's not sure who the 'we' he is referring to. Probably Isaac, because he didn't do much anymore without the other werewolf having to be involved. Or, he thinks rather dazedly, he could be referring to Derek. Well, if something good can come out of it… "You know that right?"

Stiles nods shakily against Scott and realises his eyes are starting to water again.

"Can we take this inside?" Stiles asks, finally extricating himself from Scott's clutches and wiping his eyes. "I'm not sure what the neighbors' are thinking of all the bromance."

Scott chuckles and nods, suddenly whipping out a small bundle of items from the inside of the jeep.

"I brought movies," he announces, handing them over to Stiles.

"Cool," Stiles says, half-heartedly going through the pile of dvd's.

"And popcorn," Scott says, waving a small baggy around, before fussing through it and brandishing a familiar orange packet. "And Reese's Pieces…"

Stiles eyes light up and he makes for grabby hands at it.

"Ah, pabulum..." he says, retrieving the packet from him. "Why thank you, kind sir."

"Pabu what?" Scott asks, looking confused

"Insipid intellectual nourishment," Stiles continues.

Scott continues to look blankly at him. It helps that Stiles makes it a mission to study a dictionary and thesaurus every now and then. With someone like Peter on the scene, it was always handy to have a quick witted reply at the ready. He _doesn't_ actually hold anything against the little chocolatey pieces.

"Right…" Scott laughs it off, and Stiles is relieved because he hadn't a clue where he was going with that train of thought. It was something he did often, throw random words out, make himself sound intellectually superior (and yes, he's completely aware that he's very close to sounding like an asshole on many an occasion) and distract from the obvious. "What do these mean then?"

He pulls a bag of marshmallows out and throws them at him. Stiles manages to catch it one handed.

"Oh my god," Stiles announces, with a slow smile. "I love you."

"Naturally," Scott says, slinging his arm around Stiles shoulders. "I remember you said something about them reminding you of your mom."

In fact he'd once said, back when they were still kids, that they made him think of moms' in general. He doesn't know why, just the essence of them, the soft squishiness, the sweetness, the instant comforting feeling he got after he ate one. Still, it got him right there in his gut that Scott had remembered it at all.

Stiles ends up falling asleep, after overdosing on the sugary doughy balls of death, at least halfway through the second movie (they had at least another three to go) with his head pillowed on Scott's lap and one leg over the end of the couch. Scott doesn't complain, at least Stiles doesn't think he does, and stays there until his dad threatens to forcibly remove him.

* * *

Things seem to settle down for a while. There's a brief amount of time (barely gracing two weeks) where there's small, passing glances, and hushed conversations around him. He wondered, at the time, if it was the same reaction Lydia had after her very public meltdowns. As it was Stiles didn't become anymore of a social outcast than he was before.

He thinks he probably has Lydia to thank for that.

Also it kind of helped that Scott and Isaac both executed the best ever death star glare at anyone who even vaguely looked at Stiles in the wrong way. Boyd was back too and his hulking presence always seemed to accompany their glares.

At first Stiles tried avoid him. He did, after all, leave him to the mercy of the Argents. But then they had this moment in the hallway, where Boyd did that weird thing with his eyes again, and Stiles ended up feeling all kinds of floaty and relaxed and safe in his company. Stiles put it down to some bizarre wolf-like forgiveness.

Most of the Lacrosse team, the coach, even Harris, went a little bit easier on him, which left him feeling… odd, to say the least. It just reminded him that things weren't actually normal. That he was in some kind of _phase_ and that ultimately something would happen to unsettle the strange and fragile balance they were all tottering on.

And then everything shifted.

He wasn't sure when it actually happened… actually, scrap that. He knew exactly when it shifted.

Jackson left

They're weren't exactly the best of friends. In fact, they barely got on, but there was something about him leaving that left Stiles reeling. Jackson had been one of the two people he'd ended up telling. Yeah, it probably could have been anyone he vaguely knew, but it turned out to be Jackson.

He ends up feeling a little lost when he hears about it.

A little less safe

A little more betrayed

Fucking London

Lydia surprisingly seems unfazed by it all. But then she's always been incongruent with her emotions.

He supposes this should be a good thing. He was a love rival after all, but things have changed with Lydia over the last few months. Stiles still has deep, intense feelings for her – it's not something he can describe, just that he feels a little more anchored around her – but he's not sure that he loves her the way he thought he did.

He guesses this is a good thing by the way she's looking at Aidan. Yeah, you heard it here first folks. That whole epic love affair and symbolic key that evidently ended Jackson's Kanima killing ways just kind of… fizzled out and by the look on Lydia's face she's all loved up again.

Stiles rolls his eyes, banging his locker shut. The noise startles Lydia, causing her to glance past Aidan's shoulder. Stiles breaks into a huge forced smile and waves his hand at her. She frowns, not even bothering to wave or smile back, and nods a little.

It's an acknowledgment at least.

* * *

It turns out there's traces of Stiles all over the Argent basement.

A little bit of DNA here. A little bit of DNA there.

The most obvious sign is the dried blood in the carpet across the left hand side of the room. It wasn't actually that obvious at first. Someone had made an effort to clean it up and one of the CSU members had come across it with a luminol lamp.

There's also evidence of some sort of restraint rigged with electrical wires exactly where Stiles said it would be.

"Dad?" Stiles voice cracks, startling him from where he is looking at the copy of the report he'd been given.

"Stiles?"

Stiles is standing in the doorway, looking pale, and clutching his Lacrosse uniform.

"They found my DNA, right?"

John's had the report for a while now and he's not stupid. He knew Stiles probably would have snooped by now, he just wonders why it's taken him so long to broach the subject with him. Probably the same reason why he hasn't tried to speak about it with his son either. They dance around it, ignore it, and most evidently, are both morosely silent about it. Stiles is actually much quieter than usual. In fact he's barely going out, so he's both a little apprehensive and pleased to know that Stiles has a few outings at school – doing what sixteen year olds were supposed to be doing for a change – coming up ahead.

"Yeah, I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier," he says, wiping a hand over his face. He nods at the uniform in his hand. "You need to do some laundry?"

Stiles shakes his head and eyes the half-filled tumbler of whiskey at his side wearily.

"Kid?"

"It's my uniform…" Stiles finally says after clearing his throat a few times. "From the night of the game."

John stills at this.

He remembers now how Stiles had insisted, through the lies, that he needed a new uniform because the coach would be pissed that he managed to get blood all over it. He'd forgotten about it until now and it's a complete surprise to realise Stiles had kept it all this time.

"You… you kept it?"

Stiles nods, ringing the red material between his hands.

"It was in the back of my closet. I was going to… burn it? I guess," Stiles says with a shrug. He abruptly pushes it out towards him. "I suppose they have to test it too."

He says it like he doesn't know police procedural. It's a little bewildering, but he knows Stiles is reluctant to take this any further. In Stiles eyes, this has only came out because he couldn't keep his emotions in check, and it frightens him because he'd be none the wiser if he had.

John nods instead of reprimanding Stiles on his disregard for preserving evidence and keeping him out of the loop. Again.

"I didn't wash it," Stiles says, as though he knows, and as if to make it a little more acceptable.

John manages to find some unused evidence bags in his police cruiser and returns to the kitchen where he takes the uniform from Stiles and stuffs it in the bag.

Stiles stands around uncomfortably until he eventually heads to the stairs when it's finally sealed shut.

"Stiles?"

He turns with dull eyes, face schooled into a blank canvas, and looks expectantly at him.

"You did the right thing, kiddo."

Stiles simply shrugs and heads back to his room.

John's left holding an evidence bag and wondering if any of it was actually helping.

* * *

Derek's dead.

He feels like he's drowning.

No one seems to realise he can't catch his breath anymore.

When Scott tells him he doesn't even react. Just like Lydia, he's incongruent to what's happening around him, and some might think he's being a little bit cold about it.

He's not though. He's absolutely not. He just hasn't the energy deal with it.

He's panicking inside. Derek's dead. He's fucking dead. It's kind of like a sucker punch to the gut. Because Derek was one of the last things that was supposed to make him feel safe. Yeah, there's his dad – who's still struggling, like him – and Scott – who's sick and not healing and Derek is, _was_, the alpha. He was supposed to make them better. Stronger. Be a pack.

(He doesn't know when he starts referring himself as pack. But it happened, just for the briefest of moments, before it went away).

He feels bad for Cora. She's lost her brother.

It's not enough to distract him from the sudden pain in his chest. At the sudden feeling of yet another loss.

He still has Scott and Lydia. And maybe even Allison. They're not exactly talking per-se, and things are still a little frosty between them but Allison is spending time with Lydia and Lydia, in return, is spending more time with Stiles so it was only to be expected that their paths would cross. There's some sort of silent understanding between them that leaves Stiles feeling like he can breathe a little easier around her.

It's reassuring to know that Boyd is still around, with his calming presence, but he seems too distracted with his own unresolved issues and the fact that – YES, HELLO – his alpha had just died, to realise Stiles is floundering in his own despair.

Ultimately it all comes down this;

Everyone leaves.

His mom

Heather

Erica

Jackson

Derek

Anyone, from the station, who remotely meant anything to him.

Hell, even Scott's dad (Yeah, he never particularly liked the guy, but for a while – when his dad was losing himself in whiskey – Mr McCall had been the only father-figure he'd known.)

And he was scared it was happening again.

It was all Derek's fault. Well, it wasn't. Not really. But it's easier to get angry about it, then risk losing his shit in public again.

Only, he gets a little mean and cranky too.

He smiles at Jarrod and makes him puke.

He even yells in the coach's face.

And then they end up at the Glen Capri.

Lydia does her screaming thing and gets some type of sixth sense thing going on. She can even hear things that no one else can. And Stiles? Stiles spends the entire night, along with Lydia and Allison, saving everyone's asses.

By the time they get round to Scott, covered in gasoline and brandishing a flare, Stiles is beyond frayed and near tears. He gives his best friend an impassioned speech, full of brittleness and exposed vulnerability. Because he can't do this. He can't just leave. He won't have anyone.

"_You're not no one, okay?" _

"_You're someone." _

His voice cracks when he says _"You're my best friend... and I need you."_

Tears fall and Stiles ends up calling Scott his brother.

When he steps into the pool of gasoline and says _"So, if you're going to do this, you're just gonna have to take me with you,"_ he thinks, just as a fleeting thought – and it's over before he even realises he had it _– fuck it, why not_. It would be over in seconds. Instead he slowly grasps the flare above Scott's hand and wrenches it away.

Seconds later Lydia is barrelling into them, shoving them out of the way of the blast. And he's relieved. He really is.

Lydia smothers her lithe body with his and he's strangely touched at how fiercely she does it.

No one really talks about it afterwards. Stiles stays quiet and he figures that everyone else presumes he's a little shell-shocked at the events that had unfolded. He is. But he's also shit scared at how easy it would have been to follow through on his thought.

Scott seems a little perturbed at his own actions and glances worriedly over at him. Eventually he nods at him in invitation and Stiles eagerly scrambles over into the available seat next to him. He presses his side and leg a little unnecessarily into Scott, but he doesn't complain. They're disturbed a little later when one of the twins tells them they don't think Derek's dead. Stiles feigns sleep and so pretends he doesn't hear.

He prays it's true.

* * *

Stiles drops Isaac and Scott off at Scott's house. He heads home for a brief check-in.

"Hey kid," his dad says in greeting. He's out of uniform and it's already nearing night, so he knows he's not working the night shift. "How'd it go?"

"Don't even ask," Stiles mutters, dropping heavily into the dining room chair. He lets his bag drop at his feet.

"That bad, huh?" his dad grins at him. He pushes a freshly poured coffee across the table.

"Disaster," Stiles tiredly grins at him. He knows they're talking about completely different subjects and it kind of still burns deep at him that he can't be completely honest with his dad. Ironically, he's still having to lie through one of the most honest things he's ever had to say.

"You okay?" his dad is frowning at him. "You're looking a little pale."

"I'm fine," Stiles instantly lies.

_I'm fine _

_Apart from the not sleeping _

_The jumpiness _

_The constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible is about to happen _

_It's called hypervigilance _

His dad looks like he doesn't believe him, and as much as it hurts him deeply and how he remembers tearfully telling Lydia how he had wanted talk to his dad but he didn't know how, and it actually feels normal for once.

"Thanks for the caffeine, but I've got to go," Stiles says, draining the last of his coffee and pushing himself up and away from the table.

"You just got back," his dad frowns at him some more.

"I left something at Scott's."

The lie falls smoothly from his lips and he wonders why his dad is letting him do it so easily.

His dad just grunts something at him, grabbing at his own coffee, and heads off into his own poky office and Stiles is left blinking at a closed door.

* * *

He ends up sitting in his jeep outside Derek's loft.

He'd gone there, not because he had hoped Derek was actually alive, but for some of the relief he had lost on the way. The soft remains of Boyd's calmness. The remnants of Derek's essence. The reluctant safety that came from it.

The anti-hero, Stiles scoffs.

The loft was a place Stiles could breathe. A big open space in the safe confines of brick and mortar.

He hadn't actually believed what had been said earlier. Scott had been adamant that Derek was dead. That there was no way anyone, even a werewolf, could survive the injuries he had sustained.

Only Stiles instantly recognises the car outside the building.

In fact he vaguely recognised the second car that was there too. He had seen it many times in the school parking lot. It takes him a few seconds to place a face but as soon as he does he's out of the car and up the stairs that lead to the Loft's huge front entrance, banging heatedly on it.

He's on the second or third round of banging when the door slides open enough for Ms Blake to push through, a troubled expression on her face. By the fact that she's a little a bit on the undressed side for it to be a friendly visit, wearing a top that was obviously not hers, and her hair being more than a little fly-away, Stiles can guess what's been happening.

"Mr Stilinski?" she says in surprise. She glances nervously over her shoulder before looking at him again. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Stiles snaps at her. It sounds really harsh, even to his own ears, and he really should probably back off because it's not her fault and it's really none of his business what's been going on here.

Only it is, because apparently, if he's not mistaken, Derek is actually alive and having sex with his teacher while Stiles has spent the entire night saving everyone. And it's not his responsibility, okay? It's not. Not when he's feeling like this. Not when his life is so shitty. When it's been so completely shattered that he can't see beyond the cracked visage of his life, right now.

And it stings, that Derek's alive and having a wonderful time, while everyone else seems to be falling apart and it more than burned when Scott first uttered 'He's dead. Derek's dead' and his chest is tightening, his eyes stinging.

Ms Blake raises her eyebrows and steps back past the gap.

"I think you should go. It's late. You should be at home."

"Where is he?" Stiles bites out. He pushes his arm and foot into the gap, blocking her from sliding it shut.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, trying to push him back. She succeeds a bit and he stumbles back in surprise. It's the perfect opportunity to slam the door in his face, but she doesn't and she stares at him for longer than necessary. He's left feeling unnerved by it. "Go home, Stiles."

"I know he's here," Stiles grinds out. "Unless you're one of those who snap up the recently deceased apartments. I can't see you driving the Camaro though."

He doesn't know how he's managed to squeeze all those words out because he's suddenly really breathless and winded and bent at the middle. One hand grabs at the cool metal of the loft door as he wheezes out and the rusty hall leading to the loft door spins in two simultaneous directions around him.

"Are you okay?" Ms Blake is asking him as he hears the sound of the door sliding open some more.

"No," Stiles manages to gasp out. He feels her hands on him and he instinctively wrenches away from her with a snarl. "Get your fucking hands off me!"

The door is suddenly pulled open with more force and then there's more hands on him, grappling with him, and he finds himself being shoved into the loft. He stumbles, hands actually grazing the floor as he struggles to find purchase and rebalance himself.

By the time he does Derek is standing in front of him.

Whatever air that had been escaping him is suddenly back in him and he finds a lungful of it making its way greedily up to this throat.

Derek is alive. The shit-head is categorically not dead. He does look injured – there's some nasty looking scratches and at least a few deep gauges that have yet to heal – but he looks nowhere near as injured or _dead_ as Scott had described.

"You're alive," Stiles states with a strangled voice.

"You were having a panic attack," Derek states back instead.

They seem to be having a game of State The Stupidly Obvious so he follows it with "You're fucking my teacher."

Stiles takes a moment, in the midst of the chaos around them, to feel slightly smug and a bit amused to see Derek is taken aback by his choice of words.

"Do you mind…?" Derek growls at him.

"You're a dick," Stiles continues, feeling his chest tighten some more and tears bubble at his eyes. "I… everyone… thought you were dead. And instead you're hear having sex with her," Stiles gasps out, furiously wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "And do you know what I was doing?" he asks accusingly.

He's angry more than anything and everything is suddenly freaking him out. He's itchy all of the sudden and he needs to move. The loft is big enough for him to pace back and forth but it's not relaxing him. His arms and legs are sporadic. His body frenetic as he moves wildly to the left and then to the right.

Derek lets him, eyes crinkling in concern.

"Your pack nearly died tonight."

"What?" Derek snaps. He makes a move towards him and then stops, glancing at Blake. At her lack of reaction, Stiles wonders how much she actually knows, and then she's gasping and going to Derek. Touching him. Eyes searching him.

"Yeah, that's right. While you've been having your booty call, what's left of your pack tried to kill themselves…" Stiles gasps out, breaths coming a little too fast. "And I spent the entire night stopping them."

He surges forward and manages to shove Blake away from Derek. Derek immediately growls, eyes flashing red and grabs Stiles by the throat.

"Me. Doing your job," Stiles gasps out painfully and Derek's eyes widen when he remembers Stiles was having difficulty breathing before he even grabbed him by the throat. Derek releases him and then reaches out a steadying hand when he sways on the spot. Kind of a strange thing to do when you just assaulted said swayee.

He spits out how Lydia is hearing dead people

How they saved Boyd from drowning himself

How Isaac was freaking out under the bed and talking nonsense

How Ethan nearly sliced himself open and Stiles nearly got a face full of a rotating blade

How Scott doused himself in gasoline and lit a flare

Derek's looking paler at each revelation before he suddenly rounds on Stiles, dragging him close, and growling into his face. "Why do you smell like gasoline?"

"What part of Scott doused himself in gasoline don't you get?"

"But why do you smell of it?" Derek asks again. He even shakes him a little.

And then it's spilling out of him like he has no control over it at all. "I stepped into it, okay? I told Scott he'd have to take me with him… and just for a second… I wanted it… I wanted it over…" He feels a sob escape and bile's rising. He shoves Derek away with force and hightails it to what he hopes is the bathroom, feeling the bile rise.

He barely makes it to the toilet before he's losing the little amount of food he'd had. And by little he means the few candy bars Boyd had stolen from the smashed vending machine and threatened to forcibly shove down his throat or the Gatorade drink Scott had in his bag. He retches violently into the toilet and suddenly he can't breathe at all, fingers scrabbling at his face and then his throat. Even in his panic, he's aware, that he's getting vomit and spittle across his fingers.

There's suddenly a pair of hands on him, then arms around him, and he's being held up. A wash of murmuring floats over him. He's dimly aware, through the greyness invading his peripheral vision, of black vines snaking their way up the arms and he abruptly breathes a little bit easier. The sudden oxygen intake leaves him reeling and dizzy.

He can hear Derek's voice close in his ears.

"Breathe, Stiles. Just breathe."

Stiles does and now that he is he realises there was a loudness there before that isn't there now. His breaths are quiet, still shuddering, but nowhere near as gasping and wheezy and panicking as they were.

It's now that he realises Derek has him embraced between his legs, shaking like a leaf, and any other day it would totally be humiliating for both of them. But then it's not every day you have an adolescent with a double whammy of puking their guts out while simultaneously having a panic attack. He's just glad that Peter wasn't here to witness it.

Derek keeps one arm around Stiles waist, probably because there was still a high chance Stiles would face-plant right back into the hard porcelain of the toilet, and snakes a hand up to brace the front of Stiles forehead. It was either to help keep his head from drooping or a really stealthy way of checking for a temperature. Either way, the hand was a blessedly cool offering and he sighs against it.

"You finished puking?" Derek asks him

Stiles nods shakily.

"Are you okay?" Blake asks hesitantly from the bathroom doorway.

"Do I look okay?" Stiles grouses from under Derek's hold, not entirely pleased she was seeing him in such a weak and vulnerable state. He didn't care she was his teacher. She still unsettled him.

"Stiles…" Derek warns him from behind. He feels Derek shift against him – probably to get an eyeful before he sends her on her way. "Sorry Jennifer. Rain-check?"

Stiles glances up at her. He can see she doesn't look too happy about it but she schools her features when she realises he's looking at her. She nods at them, shaking her phone. "Maybe you should call his dad."

"No," Stiles and Derek both say in chorus and Stiles blinks in surprise.

"You should go," Derek tells her, more firmly. "I'll deal with Stiles."

"Okay," she says. She hesitates a second before stooping close to kiss Derek on the top of his head. Stiles can't help but roll his eyes. When she stands he sees her glance in the mirror, frowning again, and he swears, just for the second that her reflection is there, that there was something else but it's gone before he can even blink. "Call me."

Stiles scrambles away from Derek as soon as he hears the snick of the loft door shutting and ends up leaning against the shower door. Derek remains where is, leaning against the wall of the bathroom.

"I can't believe you haven't told anyone you're actually alive," Stiles eventually breaks the silence, feeling a little unsettled at the way Derek was staring at him.

"I needed time to heal."

"You were having sex," Stiles points out. "I think that was enough time. Don't you?"

"It helped," Derek says with a shrug.

"Oh my god," Stiles snorts abruptly and shakes his head. "Seriously?"

"You have quite a mouth on you, you know that?" Derek mutters at him. "And really inappropriate timing."

"What can I say?" Stiles snarks back. "It's one my skills."

Derek gracefully rises to his feet and throws a damp flannel in his lap.

"What?" Stiles asks stupidly.

"You've got puke on you," Derek states and waves his hand impatiently at him. "C'mon, get up and clean yourself."

Stiles nods and palms the damp cloth into a closed fist.

"Can you manage?"

Stiles nods and tries to push himself up. He's not as graceful as Derek and veers off to the side unexpectedly. He's saved from an unsavoury slide back to the floor with a sudden hand fisting into his hoodie and hauling him to the sink basin where he gratefully braces himself against it.

He's halfway through clearing himself up, and ignoring the fact that Derek is inspecting the contents of the toilet, when Stiles tries to avoid obvious touchy subjects by theorising on why Isaac was hiding under a bed and not actively trying to kill himself like all the other wolves.

"I don't know," stiles says, scrubbing at his face, even though there was nothing left to scrub, making his pale face look pink and sore. "Maybe it was death by withering. It happens."

"Stiles…" Derek cuts in, flushing the toilet.

"What? It's a thing."

"Cut it out," Derek admonishes, snagging the flannel and throwing it in the sink.

Stiles stares at it for a few seconds and then takes a breath before looking back at Derek.

"What? What do you want me to say?"

"Did you really want to die?"

"What? No," Stiles shakes his head hard. Probably a mistake because suddenly there's a headache against his temples and his feeling nauseas again. "It was just a fleeting thought. Gone in seconds. It wasn't even a big deal."

"It's a huge deal," Derek says, voice hard and angry. "Does your dad know?"

Stiles turns away, staring into the mirror, and shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"Why do you think?" Stiles states back, a little too pitiful for even him.

"You're scared."

Stiles whirls at him angrily and then his eyes spill with fresh tears. Slow and painful this time.

He turns back to the basin, hands digging into it, and bites his lip.

"Do you know how hard it is," he says. His voice sounds thick in his throat. "To know what you can and can't say. I mean, how do you say 'hey dad, I felt like killing myself for like two seconds. Also, werewolves.'"

Derek just nods at him and does nothing much else, really.

"I know it's difficult," Derek says after the silence stretches along too far. "But you just tell him how you're feeling. You can leave out all the rest. I've heard you're quite good at it."

Stiles flashes hurt eyes at him and then hesitatingly smiles "Well, how do you like them apples."

Derek rolls his eyes and points at the bathroom door. Stiles exits it and looks at him wordlessly.

"What are we doing?"

"We," Derek says, slinging his ever-surviving jacket on. "Are going to speak to your dad."

"What?" Stiles protests, shaking his head again. "Like now. As in this very second? I thought we agreed it was nothing…" Derek just glares at him and yanks the door open. "It was like seconds, dude."

"I don't care if it was seconds, days, or weeks. It was enough. Now give me your keys."

"No," Stiles says stubbornly.

It's futile really, because Derek just roughly manhandles him, hands reaching into pockets and Stiles pales and stiffens when he feels hands close in on him. In intimate areas. He lets out an involuntarily gasp.

Derek flinches and jumps back a little, the jeep keys dangling from his fingers, eyes widening in realisation.

"Shit. I'm sorry…" Derek starts.

Stiles quickly covers up his reaction and barks a laugh at him.

"You're so easy to piss around with," he throws over his shoulder as he passes Derek

During the drive back home Derek quietly murmurs something at him.

"Did you say something?" Stiles asks, suddenly exhausted again.

"I said you can tell your dad about everything, if you want. You don't need our permission."

"It's not that," Stiles weakly shakes his head, feeling a chill come over him. "What if telling him gets him killed."

Derek doesn't have a response to that.

* * *

His dad doesn't take it well.

It takes him a while to get over the fact that Derek's driving his sixteen year old kid around and is in the middle of threatening some form of bodily harm when Derek abruptly announces _"Stiles wanted to kill himself."_

Stiles manages a disgruntled "What the fuck, dude?" before going into a panic-filled damage control while reminding himself _'No names, Stiles. No details. Just get yourself out of this mess.'_

"Seriously, dad. I was freaking out. I didn't know how to help… and I panicked. It was just for a second and then it was gone. I scared the shit out myself."

His dad looks totally distraught and Stiles feels terrible. He'd never leave him. Never. He knows that, right?

His dad grabs him gently by the face, eyes frantically searching him, murmuring nonsense into his hair.

"I'm sorry, dad. I'm sorry," Stiles begs, tears sliding down his check and settling against his dad's thumb.

"No," his dad growls at him, shaking his head and then pulling him into a tight hug. Stiles immediately burrows himself into it, face buried into his dad's neck. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I wouldn't have done it," Stiles whispers against him.

"God, stiles…" his dad mutters against him. He pulls back slightly, studying Stiles face again before going back for a second hug. Stiles doesn't resist. "I've let this drag on for too long. It's been months. All this time? You should have been talking. I should have been making you talk. Therapy or something…"

"No therapy," Stiles object quickly, pulling away from his dad and shaking his head.

"You need to talk."

"I am talking," Stiles says, wiping at his eyes and trying to muster up a smile. It only results in a watery imitation of his usual grin. "If you hadn't noticed, this is talking."

"I mean really talking, Stiles. I… can't lose you. I can't stand back and watch you implode. Because that's what's happening. And I can't, kid. I just can't," his dad's voice is breaking and Stiles blinks, staring back, unsure what to do. He can't let his dad break again. Not because of him.

"Okay," Stiles whispers quietly, winding his hand tightly around his arm and squeezing. "Whatever you want, dad. I'll do anything."

_Anything_.

Stiles has spent ages wanting to talk to his dad.

Maybe it was time he started listening back.

* * *

They find Gerard's body two towns over in a run of the mill motel.

He's found in a pool of his own black blood and, reportedly, self-inflicted wounds.

His dad's better at concealing any sign of official reports this time, so he can only go on what he's told. Gerard doesn't seem to be the type to take his own life, not after doing what he did to preserve it, and Stiles can only predict the 'wounds' were either the Argent's or Derek's doing.

The blood is surprising, considering the last time he'd seen any black gloop was back in that warehouse. There hadn't been any sign of this on the last night he'd seen him, passively aggressively trying to make everyone believe Stiles was losing his shit

Stiles tries to gather as much information as possible, in light of his dad keeping anything official away from him, but can only find a small article about the death in the corner of the local paper. It says nothing he doesn't know already. Dead in a pool of blood, cancer ridden, self-inflicted wounds. It makes a small reference to an on-going case.

Stiles reads between the lines and adds in the blanks.

_Kidnap. Grievous bodily harm. Torture. Sexual assault. _

"I'm sorry," His dad says, watching him read the small, barely there article.

"For what?" Stiles asks. He looks up, genuinely confused.

His dad shrugs where he sat with his breakfast and the sports pages. "Just, maybe you were expecting something different. Some closure?"

"He's dead," Stiles states flatly, folding the paper over neatly and leaving it by his dad's side.

Stiles didn't know what he wanted out of all of this, but being dead was probably the best, all round, for everyone. He wonders if Jackson would appreciate hearing the news in London and considers cutting the small column out to post it but then figures that's way too much effort and figures _'Gerard's dead'_ in an email would suffice.

"I know," his dad smiles warmly at him. "But I'm still sorry."

Stiles ends up sitting on the steps to the old Hale porch. It looks like someone has started renovations on it. He's glad, remembering how it had vaguely looked, and hopes the house could be reverted back to its former glory

"So, I guess you heard about Gerard then?" a voice says from behind. Derek.

Stiles hadn't realised he was here and he coughs a little nervously, realising he'd been drawn to two familiar places when Derek had been exactly there, in as many days. He shouldn't be that surprised – they were both Derek's, so it was only to be expected he'd bump into him eventually.

Why did he come here though? Why Not Scott. Or even Lydia?

"Was it you or Chris?" Stiles asks instead.

He hears Derek sigh loudly and before joining him on the step. A few puffs of dust rise from his low slung pants and there's smears of what looks like paint across the front of his t-shirt. Clearly it's Derek who's doing the renovations.

"Chris," Derek answers. "He and a few local hunters tracked him down."

"The wounds?" he asks, turning to look at Derek with a raised eyebrow.

"Ritualistic markings. Deaton advised on them to ensure he didn't manage to resurrect himself."

Stiles frowns at this and shakes his head.

"And Chris just volunteered this information to you?"

"We had a deal to keep each other in the loop. Whoever found him would inform the other," Derek turns and looks at him, hand surprisingly on his arm. "For what it's worth – I'm sorry that it wasn't me."

Stiles shakes the arm off and snorts in amusement. He pushes up from the steps and takes a step away before stalling and shaking his head.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles bites his lip and shrugs.

"What was with all the black stuff they found him in," he asks, ignoring the question. He sits back down heavily. "The paper said it had something to do with his cancer, but when he turned up on that night there wasn't any sign of it. None. Zilch. Nada."

"Magic."

It's so unexpected. Stiles doesn't have anything in response.

"What now?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.

"What? Werewolves, kanimas, ritualistic sacrifices?" Derek scoffs at him. "And you have trouble believing in magic?"

"Did you see me with that mountain ash?" Stiles barks at him, nudging Derek's shoulder with his own. Stiles doesn't know when (maybe it was on the floor of his bathroom) but they've progressed in their relationship. They may have even passed the enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend-stage. "I have no trouble believing in magic. But Gerard? Not so much."

"He was a hunter who broke the code repeatedly. A desperate man, who was afraid of his own mortality, and looking for desperate answers."

"Chris told you all _that_?"

"They found a book near his body," Derek rolls his eyes at him. "A Grimoire. It's a type of…"

"I know what it is. I'm not stupid," Stiles says, clearly offended. "You think I'd not look into every spell book I could while someone is ritualistically killing people?... Wait, are we thinking it was Gerard?"

"No, that's something Chris and I actually agree on."

"So what was he doing?"

"Deaton's looked at the book. He thinks it was a perception spell. He manipulated how everyone saw him. Its incantation is loosely translated to indicate that people see what they want to see, but it can show itself in many ways. The last thing they saw? The last significant thing they saw? A pleasant or unpleasant emotion can manifest itself in a particular image or way."

Stiles doesn't say anything. Instead he sucks in a breath and remembers. Gerard's face closing in on him. Hot breaths against his face.

"Allison saw the grandfather she wanted," Derek continues. "You saw Gerard as you did that night. The very human monster that he is. Jackson and Lydia never saw him looking anything different. If it had been me or Scott then maybe it would have been different."

Stiles nods and looks away to stare at the side of his Jeep.

"Why did you tell the police that you saw Boyd and Erica?" Stiles asks him, eyes searching for an answer. "I know you didn't."

"Why did you?"

"I… you know why…" Stiles tries to say, shaking his head. "I owed Chris. He might have questionable morals but he's nothing like Gerard."

Derek nods a little before shrugging, completely giving him mixed signals and leaving him with no definitive answer.

"I know you didn't do it for any of the Argent's," Stiles prods.

"Maybe I did it for you," Derek mutters quietly, staring at the dusty, dry ground beneath their feet. "You sounded so down about Erica. I just wanted to make sure the heat was off you if the police started looking into it."

"Oh," Stiles states numbly. "That's actually really sweet. Now I feel bad for backing up Scott's murder accusations. Oh god, I'm an enabler."

"Hey," Derek asks. He waves a hand in front of his face when he starts to drift a little. "_Are_ you okay?"

"I'm absolutely sick of being asked that," Stiles laughs out loud, rubbing his face with his hands.

"But are you?"

"No?" Stiles shrugs and waves a hand dismissively. "Yes? Maybe? I don't know, but I'm getting there."

"Okay," Derek chuckles back. "That's so much clearer."

It's weird hearing Derek chuckle and probably the closest thing to laughter he could get.

"My dad's making me see the school counsellor," Stile says quietly

"Good," Derek gruffly replies. "I'm not used to all this teen angst."

"Hello? Hasn't your adolescent sister just come back into your life? You better start getting used to it buddy."

"I don't think Cora will be as much of a nuisance as you bunch of ignoramus fools."

"Okay, Derek…" Stiles starts to say slowly. "_Female. Adolescent. Werewolf._ Is my health at risk at that time of the month?"

"Your health is at risk right now if you don't stop talking," Derek warns him, scowling.

"Will she move in here with you when you're finished re-building it?" Stiles suddenly veers off topic.

"Probably."

Wow. Informative.

Stiles surveys the original structure and whistles.

"Just the two of you? Isn't it a bit on the big side."

"Maybe I'll expand the pack," Derek rolls his eyes sarcastically.

"You'll invite Isaac back, right?" Stiles asks, worrying his lip. He isn't entirely sure why he cares. He's not supposed to like the sneaky best friend stealer. At least if he had his own place he wouldn't have to room with Scott. "He seemed kind of upset when you threw him out."

"I know," Derek flashes his eyes at him. "I'll deal with it."

"And there's Boyd. He chose you over Scott so it's only fair. And I know Scott's not in your pack but he'll probably start to feel left out."

"Right," Derek snorts, shaking his head. "I suppose you'll want a room too."

"I'm good, thanks," Stiles says with a nonchalant shrug. _But it would be nice to be asked_. "Where _is_ Cora, by the way? She wasn't at the loft the other night."

"She was staying with Peter while I was out of action…" Derek starts.

"Seriously? I hope she's back," Stiles makes no effort to mask his disgust. "Your uncle is as lethal as pop rocks and soda."

Derek's mouth twitches a little. "First of all. Urban Legend. Secondly, she's back at the loft so no more poorly constructed misconceptions please."

They're silent for less than a minute before he finds himself talking again.

"Sorry for cock-blocking you."

"Please stop talking," Derek warns him in exasperation. At least he's not threatening him with violence. Like ripping his throat out. With his teeth.

"- Actually," Stiles continues, ignoring him completely. "I'm not. I don't like your girlfriend."

"Stiles…"

"It's just a feeling, you know. She creeps me out… and I'm pretty good at picking out the psychos. I always thought Gerard was a bit wrong. And who was the first to point the finger at Matt?" he asks and then points a finger at himself. "Me. That's who. And Jackson, huh? I think the restraining order answers that."

"Right," Derek says, shoving him away. "I'll remember to come and consult your spidey sense when I've run out of actual answers."

"Hey… I'm just saying…" Stiles says, hands up in mock surrender. "Don't come to me when the shit hits the fan."

"I'm not asking you to like her. I don't like Lydia either but I don't verbally assault you with constant verbal diarrhoea about how much I hate your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," Stiles automatically corrects and then frowns. "And you don't? What's not to like about her. She's a red-headed goddess."

"She freaks me out," Derek admits with a scowl.

"Yeah…" Stiles agrees, considering his words, and nodding. "She is pretty scary."

A second later Stiles laughs out loud, a light flutter slipping easily from him, genuinely feeling lifted. "I should go," he says, pushing up and away from the step and heading towards his jeep.

"Stiles?"

He stops and turns, studying Derek who remained sitting on the porch steps. Calm and relaxed. At home.

"Yeah?"

"You can help if you want. With the renovations."

It's not exactly an open invitation but it's at least _something_.

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

* * *

Stiles was pleasantly surprised to find out Ms Morrell had been replaced by someone new. It was a great relief. Stiles hadn't been looking forward to seeing her (and was finding it hard to think up of reasons as to why he couldn't see her) in light of where her allegiances truly lied.

The new guy wasn't too bad and actually seemed cool. Stiles found he was pretty easy to talk to. He'd always take his Lacrosse stick, something the counsellor commented on, like his very own security blanket. Unknotting and knotting the same thread over and over again.

Throughout all his sessions he recalls the one thing Ms Morrell said to him that had been helpful, that remained with him throughout all the despair, bleakness and drowning – something he silently repeated with every thread and knot;

'_If you're going through hell,_

_Keep going'_


End file.
